


The Assignment

by Il_Lupey



Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aliens, Biology, Body Horror, Crossover, Diplomacy, Friendship, Gen, Geology, Jungle, Science Fiction, Spoilers, Underwater, Yeerks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 85,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24039076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Il_Lupey/pseuds/Il_Lupey
Summary: We can't tell you who we are. Or our mission. But we're boldly going where no normal kid has gone before.It's a good thing we're nowhere near normal.
Comments: 59
Kudos: 21
Collections: Yubi Great Crossovers





	1. Chapter 1

**The Assignment**   
_Star Trek – Animorphs_

Wind lashed rain-struck fronds in the bare minimum of light cast by intermittent flashes of lightning.

A metallic taint to the air lingered after each savage crack from the sky. It tasted of energy, of metals, and most uncomfortably of blood. The first impressions of this planet did not leave the first landing party with joy. Rather, as he cast a hand over his eyes and counted the dim figures standing beside him in another brilliant flash of light, the captain of the Enterprise cursed his luck through gritted teeth.

First impressions? Not his favourite landing. But seeing the movement of his crew gave him a sense of purpose beyond trying to see through driving rain. James T. Kirk's shouted command flew over their heads in the dull roar of thunder. Seeing the incomprehension of the young woman closest to him, Kirk used his only other way of getting the point across without using his well-trained voice.

A firm clasp on her upper arm and sharp gestures to the others, miming a hand closing, caught on swiftly.

Together as a sodden pack they tramped from the flattened vegetation at the beam-in point. Despite the complete darkness, a shout in between the bouts of the storm brought the straggling human chain under a deep overhang of rock. Kirk wiped the rain from his eyes, glancing over the edges of the cliff. He hadn't even seen it until it nearly scratched his nose.

A sudden chill caught him by surprise. The water wasn't completely shut out from the landing party and he could feel it through the thin material of his uniform.

The scans hadn't exactly promised sunny weather, but this was ridiculous.

"Sir!"

"Ensign, report." To keep with Starfleet protocol he didn't wipe the excess water from his mouth like a drooling invalid. It felt uncomfortably warm and sprayed into the hand he'd wisely set as a mouthguard.

Wide eyes blinked under a mass of brown hair, just shy of overlong. "There's no signs of the native sentients, captain. Our instruments aren't reacting well to the storm!"

"Is that as a result of the interference, or have we beamed to the wrong location?"

"Captain."

Despite the unfortunate conditions, the perfect bowl-cut of his second had survived. That and the gleam of his slanted ears in the darkness brought Kirk's full attention to bear. The muted chatter of his landing party blended into rushing water as if it didn't exist. "Yes, Mr. Spock?"

A tilt to his head acknowledged Kirk's inference. "I believe that our instrumentation should become useful once more in the event of less inclement weather. And despite the circumstances of our arrival, I do not believe that we have come to avoid our intended coordinates."

"And what gives you that impression, Mr. Spock?"

"My assistance was given in marking the location for our beam-down, sir."

"Oh. I see." And the dark humidity of the semi-cave gave him the excuse to wipe away the slight smile. "I understand. How long until -"

The shout brought him to the balls of his feet, whipping around with his holstered phaser just under a steady palm.

In the startled flash of lightning the movement seemed like some kind of crazy dance. The sort he'd joined at parties, at meetings with the less - or more, according to his close friends - human denizens of the galaxy.

Not easily thrown by the strange, Captain Kirk moved to the head of the small pack of crewmen. A shouted order lay in wait in his chest, barrelled out and ready to bellow.

He didn't see it. Just the scent raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Kirk drew the phaser, thumb at the ready. A thin shoulder was the last between him and the panicked voices.

Blood. But sharp. Fresh?

"Move!"

The last did and the blue shirt left the familiar impression in a corner of his mind that whoever was bleeding had the best answer close by. Kirk didn't spare the time but rushed forward. His speed caught it by surprise.

Yellow. Two eyes, an unnatural shade that caught the storm to almost glow seconds after each flash.

Not thrown by the inhuman glare, Kirk almost had it in his grasp before the sound jumpstarted his heart into a new rhythm. It stank of wet hair and raw meat, but the deep snarl in a set of beefy jaws caught the last of a thundercrack in its menacing rumble. He paused. Not from fear of the snarl. Just the glint of gold on a red sleeve.

It had four legs. Clawed feet. An arm in its mouth and hair rising on its back in obvious threat.

No time to think. But no way to act with one of his people so close to being ripped apart. The muscles under its coat didn't bulge or seem particularly powerful, but the blood and small sounds of pain coming from his man had enough threat to them. Kirk clenched his fingers into claws, the phaser forgotten.

A sense of movement at his back brought everything into a fierce clarity. Kirk had backup. If he went to tangle with the animal, he might be savaged but the crewman would be safe.

As usual, Kirk didn't think further than that. His elbow caught it between the eyes.

A sharp yip and higher yelp from the man down, dragged by the retreating animal's jaws and he pursued in a crouch. Kirk met its eyes in the single-minded fashion of purpose unique to Starfleet’s finest.

It glared over the torn arm. Teeth showed as it properly snarled, lips back over a very familiar set of fangs. Kirk didn't let that distract him. It was almost at the wall and had nowhere else to go. The animal arched a furry tail like the many canines from Earth and gathered its legs underneath itself.

He blinked. He could see it, now. The light playing over the scene showed in a circle and threw shadows in relief like cave paintings on the walls. Someone must have activated a flashlight. About time.

Now with it cornered Kirk's attention wavered. His eyes fell to the face of his crewman. Squeezed tight against the pain, he couldn't catch his eye but had a great view of the drops of sweat running pink to pool in red.

A cool presence at his side stopped Kirk's slow advance. "Captain. I would suggest a method to rescue the lieutenant not involving further physical contact."

"Worried, Spock?"

"Can we just shoot it, gentlemen?" Dry as a summer day and ready to advance despite the vicious alien creature assaulting Starfleet personnel. The captain acknowledged his friend and medical officer with a quick glance. "I don't think I like the thought of the bacteria infestin' that thing's incisors."

Shooting it over the limp arm could work. Kirk brandished his phaser.

And then, to the shock of everyone gathered under tons of protective rock, the beast opened its mouth.

The torn sleeve dropped to the lieutenant's chest, swiftly cradled under the man's untouched right arm. Still hunched over his man and tight as a bowstring, the animal slavered. Its eyes burned like distant suns, fixed on something at about waist-height. Kirk didn't feel the need to think too hard about it. He levelled his weapon and thumbed it to level III.

"Captain, wait."

A pause. Not much else could have stopped him from depressing that activator button. Just the bland tones of a most trusted officer. Cool as always. And calculated to that precise moment of taking the miserable beast out of their collective miseries. "...Elucidate, Mr. Spock."

The beast yet rumbled. It hadn't stopped growling, he realized, throughout the whole event. As Spock began to speak again it flickered the yellow gaze - so oddly bright, Kirk couldn't help but notice them - as if listening to the speaker.

"This creature may not be of use to us dead." A long-fingered gesture encompassed the scene in the usual economy of energy he'd come to expect from the Vulcan. "As we have, as you say, cornered it, perhaps a stun setting would benefit us and our approach to the dangers of this planet."

Silence. Even the thunder seemed to wait in between the flashes of lightning. A distant part of Kirk noted the storm beginning to distance itself from his crew.

"And what do you intend to do to it, Mr. Spock?"

The white light kept over the encounter brought little distinction to those dark eyes. But Kirk didn't look for answers there. He noted the gentled line of Spock's lips, his relaxed posture. Right next to the apparently comfortable vulcan the trembling angles of his medical officer lent a thunderous backdrop to Kirk's current decision. There was little pity or interest for study in the good doctor. Kirk could understand that.

Still.

Spock made no more gestures. "Observe, captain. And when the time comes, we will have an existing body to study and dissect."

From the corner of his eye Kirk noticed it. A sharp jerk of the animal's snout. It... reacted.

As if it heard Spock. And better yet, had some idea of what it meant. He kept an eye on it and waved to the waiting doctor. "Bones?"

"Damnit Jim, you can't let that thing live! It could be resistant to a stun, could come out of it and attack one of us!"

Rubbing hands together, McCoy looked less eager to set hands on the wet fur of a stunned animal than on the broken bones of the fallen lieutenant. "I say we shoot it and find another, if it's so important to your research, Commander."

Yes. It reacted again. This time, it eyed the open space past James Kirk. Into the wilds beyond. The hairy ears pinned back against its coat and it shifted closer over the crewman.

"Yes..." He rubbed his chin slowly. "Mr. Spock. Can you come over here and block its escape route?"

He was aware of the two officers exchanging looks.

If this thing could hear and understand Standard, it might be capable of hearing the development of a plan and deciding to react accordingly. What Kirk wanted to know was how an intelligent being could act like a savage beast without provocation.

What he'd like to do was see how smart it really was. He couldn't do that with an escapee. They had to move swiftly.

"Gentlemen -"

Lips parted to issue a quiet order, Kirk whipped to the side. A sharp, blinding pain on his face, across his mouth caught him momentarily senseless.

"TSEEEEER!"

Panic. Heat and blood bubbling under his fingers. Kirk raised the phaser, only remembering just in time to dial it to the lowest setting. He fired.

He missed. A dark shadow caught the other side of his face. But the sharp pain didn't come. Soft and rounded somethings brushed his ear while a smarting blow caught the back of his head.

It was pandemonium. The light had gone out, he thought, perhaps in the hands of a less experienced ensign. The strobing effect didn't keep him off-balance for long.

Disregarding the pain Kirk stood tall and struck out overhead, blind and snarling.

His hand struck something both soft and hard at the same time. A squawk in his ear and a thud by his foot had him strike out with a foot. It landed on rock. The shadow, caught in a short flash of another source of light, stared in the midst of a brown flurry.

Yellow eyes. Again. But not a canid beast this time.

It matched his gaze for that split moment and careened out of the cave. It flew.

And as if to add insult to injury, a wild laugh echoed from the forbidding skies. Without another word it faded into the distance. Kirk stood in the midst of what must be his most undisciplined landing party across years of spacing experience. He pressed the back of his hand to bleeding lips.

"Laughter." It muffled against his knuckles. "It was laughing at us."

And no animal laughed. Not like pleasure, like the thrill of winning a fight. He eyed after the passing storm, acknowledging the disappearance of the savage canid reported by a hunched-over lieutenant by beckoning over McCoy and aiming him at the worst injury of the night.

"Captain, are you well?"

He checked the back of his hand. Another light, several perhaps, lit the space in a most imprimitive fashion. He'd have to have words with whoever organised that once the major disaster of this landing could be sorted out. By this light he saw the dark blood crusting on rare patches of dry skin. "Yes, I'm alright."

They stood together, facing the blackness of destroyed night vision in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Assignment  
> \- Cassie -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on this chapter - you may observe a difference in style between this chapter and the last.  
> This difference is intentional. Readers of the original Animorphs will hopefully find it nostalgic, as I did.  
> Thank you for reading, and enjoy.

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

My name is Cassie.

I wish I could tell you more than that. My last name. My address. I mean, I could tell you my favourite snacks, least favourite movie, my friends' names. First names. Small stuff, right?

But that could tell you more than I can afford. The wrong person could realise which town released that movie last. They could check the places that sell fresh fruits, the seasonal kind, and when. Records exist for everything, right? Me and my friends aren't safe, even if I only share a little.

I hate the taste of it. The stench never overwhelmed a wolf's nose, but at times I wondered if it might overwhelm my human mind breathing through it.

<Cassie?>

<Fine,> I answered.

Not fine. The taste receptors in this morph didn't fire the imagination. I was grateful, I guess, but the one thing a wolf really enjoyed tasting was fresh blood. And it was drooling now. <Did they hit you?>

A mental shrug. Not in words, but in that strange way we could communicate without them. <Yeah. One of the big guys smacked me out of the air.>

<Are you okay?> My eyes cast up, through the continual rain. Against the pale clouds and distant flashes of lightning, the wolf's superior night vision caught the shadow of his hawk wings high above.

Birds are fragile. I should know. I've been one.

<Let's focus on where we are, first. I can't see much up here.>

You can see why I might have something to hide. What kind of normal kid talks about tasting blood, or smelling like a wolf?

The kind that has a really good reason to be paranoid.

It was just the two of us. Some kind of storm caught us in the middle of a mission against the everyday body-snatcher horror stories my friends and I get every Tuesday. I remember being taken off my paws and tangled in wet plant life, confused and caught in the darkness.

A burning in my shoulder brought the swift lope of my wolf morph to a staggering halt.

<You can't see anything, at all?>

<Day vision, Cassie.> He sounded terse. Tobias never liked being reminded of his hawk's natural limits. <Apart from getting flashed and nearly zapped, I only saw a mountain nearby. The cave you were in was connected to it.>

I couldn't wait for the burning to ease up, not for long. With the ease of countless times of pushing through the pain, I started running again. The ground ate up under my paws as I followed Tobias, my friendly neighbourhood red-tailed hawk.

Whatever had happened, I knew this wasn't home. The wolf knew it, too.

That mission hadn't been a world-ending one. The six of us in battle-morph, Jake as his intimidating siberian tiger alongside Rachel in elephant morph. We hadn't meant to go loud, exactly, but the Yeerks operating the seismic tremor device didn't give us much choice.

And when it came to Rachel, scaring and fighting usually meant the same thing. No evil, enslaving race would remain unflattened when she was through with them.

The absence of her thundering feet and joyful trumpets made the strange forest seem that much quieter.

<Just up this hill, Cassie,> Tobias said. <You'll see it when you get up here.>

A hot pink tongue lolled out as I dug claws into shale and loose dirt to climb.

At the top, I paused again. The fur on my belly felt damp and cold. Everything else felt hot. The wolf could keep running for hours, days even, but the battle just before showing up here took its toll. The moment let me look, really look, at the landscape.

It wasn't home. This wasn't even on the same continent. My heart dropped to the floor.

Enormous fronds, like great big palm trees on fat bases standing like natural skyscrapers in fields of scraggly trees. I couldn't see the shape of the hills or land too well. The storm kept moving everything. A pang of unsettled nausea brought the wolf to blink.

It looked a lot like the times I'd been in the middle of the ocean. My legs felt a little weak.

<This...> I whispered.

<...Isn't home.> Tobias finished.

<I don't think it's even...>

His sharp raptor head turned to stare at me. He couldn't see me too well in the dark, but this close didn't hide anything. <Guess we've got to find Dorothy, Toto.>

<Ha. Ha.>

But how could we even start? I didn't remember anything about how we got there. No explosions, at least. Anything else with the power to transport the two of us didn't make me feel any better about the situation.

<I think,> Tobias began and a flash of green light threw us both into a mad dash down the other side of the rise.

<Run!> He cried.

A skidding, wild race down the slope sent small rocks in my wake. My nose was alive. Everything, the strangely bitter scent of the local flora, the panic flowing from Tobias as he wheeled into the sky, even my own sweat read directly into my mind.

The stench of cleanliness, or rather a lack of recognizable scents. Behind us.

<What was that?!> I yelled.

<A dracon beam - no, wait,> Tobias spluttered. <It wasn't yellow.>

Shouting. I heard voices. The floor came up to meet me with a whump. My paws gathered to bound as quickly as the wolf could go, a gallop into the woods.

<I'm going to see who they are,> Tobias shouted. <That shot was green!>

<So?!> My thoughts thundered in my own mind. <No, Tobias, we need to get out of here. How did they->

Flash! _Pzshshshshshshsht_!

The forest lit up in toxic green. The dirt, the most normal thing about the place, saved my furry butt as I dug in and skidded to a stop. A tree trunk caught the end of a bright lime laser beam and nearly burned the end of my nose.

<Aaah!> I yipped. I veered past the tree, ears flat against my head.

The mad dash took me over a small gully. I saw it just in time. The dirt on the other side touched the underside of my jaw and I shook my head to clear it of the light bump.

<It's them!> Tobias yelled.

<Who? The Yeerks?>

<I don't know. Maybe? The ones from before,> he said. He sounded frustrated.

<How have they kept up with us? I've been going faster through the thick of these woods than a human can on foot,> I said, dismayed. The ones I'd attacked. They were the ones chasing us?

Neither of us had an answer. I kept running. The burn in my shoulder worsened. Every step felt like it was pulling on the ribs of my other side. If these guys kept up with us, we'd have to break off and away somehow. I needed to demorph. That would solve the pain, get my energy back. Reset the clock.

<How long has it been?> I asked.

Tobias knew what I meant. <Almost an hour. You've got some time.>

Not knowing made this so, so much worse. <We don't even know where the others are. If they're here, too. We could be running away from them, for all we know.>

<I tried calling to them, but if they're here, they're either not morphed or can't do it,> Tobias said. <Maybe these guys know what's happened to them.>

<Well, I'm not stopping to ask. They'd probably shoot me first.>

Tobias didn't respond. Not seeing him through the huge palm trees which had begun to tower overhead made the feeling of being alone that much louder. If loneliness and fear can be loud. My paws felt numb, cold, as the earth changed to rock under them and I turned abruptly to scamper up the side of a rocky shelf.

<Tobias, I'm changing course,> I called up to him.

<What? Why? I can't see you,> he answered.

<Found that rock you were talking about. Even if these people are super fast, there's no way they could follow me through this,> I said in a rush of energy. It felt like joy as I scrabbled over a short lip and between two natural pillars. In a strange quirk of the landscape the forest, or jungle, ran straight up to the foot of a mountain. At its base lay crazy configurations of rocks.

I couldn't see past them but the entrance looked very promising.

<No, Cassie,> Tobias said, <that's not the way we need to go. Trust me.>

My wolf body paused to take a breather. It didn't need it. Or it shouldn't. Still, I panted and threw my tangle of annoyance and fear up at my friend. <But Tobias, you can't see well. Remember?>

<I can see well enough that you're heading into a trap,> he replied flatly.

But the small spaces in the cliff appealed to my wounded wolf's mind and even as I looked down to the original path, I saw the strange lights that decided which direction I'd be fleeing to.

Golden flecks gathered into tall spires, shorter than a hork-bajir. I watched, in awe and confusion. The lights looked like fireflies.

It brightened. I blinked.

In the seconds of seeing the trees for the forest again, as my night-vision returned, a deep instinct in my gut said run. Go. I moved.

Flash! _Pzshshsht_!

<Cassie!>

Heat on my tail. The burn didn't register anymore. Running, dash, a wall just past my nose and I was out! For moments! Running across a gap and feeling less protected than a hare beneath an eagle, I dove into another black hole. This one led past another rock pillar within a natural tunnel into another section of boulders.

I twisted and turned. My fur slid past the jagged edges as I fled, up slopes, down short inclines, but always further up.

<Cassie?!> Tobias sounded frantic.

<I'm fine!> I shot back.

<I thought they'd hit you,> he said, relieved. Then, <I told you that was a bad idea!>

I didn't have the mental space to explain that the lights that had just tried to kill me appeared right where I'd have been if I hadn't gone off-course.

The distant rumbling of the storm covered the sounds until it was almost too late. A hum. High-pitched and obvious to the wolf's ears. The fireflies. Just around the next corner!

The next gap led down into darkness. To my right. A hop, skip and a jump-!

<AAAAAAH! WHOooaa!> Freefall!

Nothing under me! And, thump.

<Oww!>

Contact. Painful. Crippling. I knew instantly that I wouldn't be loping again at the same ground-eating pace without demorphing first. A whine left my muzzle as I took a second to breathe.

<Cassie. You need to get up! You-> Tobias cut out to silence.

Green light. My stomach turned as I gaped up to the skies.

<Tobias?> My voice went into the void. <Tobias!>

Nothing. I was alone.

My legs. One of them flared as I moved it, but just pain. A strain. The other... It bent badly in the wrong direction. Despite the things I'd seen, things I'd done, the sight of bone sticking out from the fur brought nasty bile on my tongue. Demorph. Can't stay here. Need to go... bird. Yes.

The osprey would do it.

I concentrated. The fur on my legs began to shrink back into smooth skin.

The bones of my head just began to shift when a shout from a human throat made my heart stop. Someone was there. They could see me. Maybe. At night, in a gulch, in the shadows - but if they had some kind of technology to see me...

I stopped the demorph. The fur grew back and my skull refitted to the lupine shape.

And I recognized it. A deep timbre, for a human, and way too familiar. Cold leeched into my body as I realized how very badly we'd lost, in so short a time. The man from before. He'd somehow travelled all the way from the cave, and now I couldn't move. Couldn't demorph. Tobias was...!

"We come in peace! In peace!"

The echoes of his shout rang, undisturbed, through the hollows and hidden places of my resting place. They faded.

My head tilted to the side, very dog-like.

Did he just say he came in peace?


	3. Chapter 3

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

In truth Spock had not precisely expected to understand the nature of the local crisis by this early point. After all, to assume meant to challenge and undermine a purely scientific approach.

Anathema.

From the vantage point gained through rapid deconstruction of natural obstacles, he perched in the hollow of a wide, rocky peak. A firm grip through regulation boots set the breath in his lungs to steady intervals. Despite a tension in the very nape of his shoulders, the first officer of the Enterprise kept his phaser to a near-perfect stillness.

If he did not have some level of respect for the strategic capabilities of his captain, Spock may have objected to placement some distance above the altercation. Vulcans did not complain. They had no need for it.

And so Spock did not.

Perfect control. The flesh obeyed the mind.

Very little of the mission still lay within stated parameters. As the crew and command of the Enterprise had come to expect in their voyages into the unknown, Starfleet intelligence rarely, ‘held water’, under circumstance.

A gust of steamed breath blew over bare skin. His right hand held true. Spock's respiration responded to a 1.3% increase in oscillated spans of mental concentration. Base. But effective.

An attempt to pierce the darkness did not increase in efficiency despite repetition. Vulcans did, however, possess a sense beyond sight.

Deep breathing, thicker in the raw material of lungs and oesophagus to a more commonly fragile respiratory system in humanoids. It shuddered at intervals of 2.3 breaths, accompanied by faint squeaks.

"We come in peace!" A pause in which Science Officer Spock relocated his understanding of where the beast lay below. "In peace!"

28.3 metres vertical. 8.02 horizontal-north, correcting. Not within immediate reach.

Vulcans did not place mental replicas of themselves within the position of a potential foe, using the ever-magnified and inherently biased ability for 'imagination'. It did not guarantee pure fact.

A small whimper cast up into Spock's delicate aural tissue.

Despite himself, the vulcan's head turned to catch the pain on that little sound.

The captain's call echoed up into the tiered heights. A deliberate rearrangement of his shoe kept the worst of the icy winds from blowing directly up his sleeves. The double-layer did not operate beyond maximum efficiency, a bare twitch denoting the lack of efficiency in the thought itself, that one object could indeed compete with the laws under which it existed.

Spock did not find the cold a respectable opponent in his carefully maintained position.

"Being of unknown origin... You will stand down and allow yourself to be detained. Is that clear?"

Irrepressible optimism.

A cascade of earth in close vicinity. A member of the crew. He considered it. Security Officer Ralov. Male, denoting the heavier tread and apparent clumsiness. Unnecessary information.

The captain's tone increased in urgency. Knowing well the human's mannerisms, Spock could almost see his clenched chin, a hand running across the band connecting shirt to trouser. Non-essential data, perhaps. The fine texture of earth crumbled under less pressure than expected, the dust fine and scattered into the breeze. Spock released another rock and gathered a handful for greater balance, closer to the base.

"Please! I am Captain Kirk..."

A fever, to the human mind, of cerebral activity. Suppressed by trappings of logic established since the early years of his remembered life. Frictionless, yet gathering inertia since this new mystery had come to light. And yet Spock's mind emptied.

It stopped. A millisecond of nothingness. He reacted.

Communicator in-hand, tuned already to his captain, a speed to speech that neither denied verbosity nor discouraged efficacy. "Captain, come in."

Because among the many species and, perhaps incorrectly termed, 'racial abilities' scattered across the known universe, what brushed against his mind triggered an intrigue insatiable. A knowing perhaps unique to one well-acquainted in the mental arts. Yes, Spock may now understand this altercation in terms greater than an earlier hypothesis.

"Yes, what is it, Spock?"

Because that brush against the mindscape did not indicate worded speech. It did not connect, mind-to-mind, at a distance. Indefinable, no. Understandable?

"I believe the being we have pursued has made contact. And it is, indeed, intelligent."

\--

The light click allowed Kirk to scan the ravine again, focus split between the rocky floor and the measured words of his personal friend and occasional deputized encyclopedia. "How do you know that, Mr. Spock? I haven't heard anything."

"Indeed, Captain. It has not contacted me directly, but I believe it may have the capacity to do so, if it wished." A pause. "As of this moment, it appears to not desire as such."

He creased his brow. "Most eloquent as always, Mr. Spock."

The situation, after such a wild, rapid hunt through the thick of this planet's flora, allowed for some levity.

Muscles cooled rapidly in the lessened humidity of higher elevation. A shift of his arms brought a mild reminder not to raise them in decent company. The figure outlined by moonlight caused the thought to linger.

Not too close. Not too far to control, if the time came and Kirk needed to act, physically. A glance and James marked his hand in a short downward swipe. The bald man bobbled his head and crouched on the spot, tanned leather gleaming on bent knees as on the back of an oiled scalp.

What a mess. He gloried in it.

First approach to a wild animal had different implications to first contact with an intelligent being. The darkness hid his people, stationed for best access through phaser fire around the downed beast. He hoped that would be enough.

"Can you communicate with it?"

A mountain peak did not stand in total absence of moisture. It stood in awe of the flat voice over comms. "I cannot begin an attempt from where I am standing, Captain."

"Come on down. Kirk out."

As Spock made his way in what was likely an impressive display of both strength and dexterity, Kirk leaned over the lip again. His shouts hadn't raised a whimper. The growling, so deep they rattled the stuff inside the bones, didn't travel to his perch.

Or the animal might have passed out. If it could think as he suspected it might, plan or imagine creatively, then he could imagine its reaction to pain.

A long drop after slipping off a cliff.

In any case, contact with the man listed as this planet's Federation liaison made the night’s hunt a mission priority. Splitting off on a wild goose chase might paint a few black marks on his thoroughly grubbed, latinum-lined ledger, but leaving a good impression on the natives greased the wheel of those inclined to keep James T. Kirk in captaincy. It balanced out.

And the captain could follow a hunch and find out why his crewman had to be pulled out of action within minutes of beaming down.

"It's got to be capable of answering," Kirk muttered into his palm. A pluck at his sleeve caught the captain from his moment.

His new friend let go and smiled. It split damp lips, hairless and apparently slimy in the way an amphibian kept an affinity for the depths close at hand. Kirk repressed an urge to wipe the cloth on unsoiled uniform. Said urge murmured behind an ironclad resolve to keep from potentially offending the mission objective.

A light huff into another whip-strong breeze. The captain smiled, too. Briefly. "Yes, what is it?"

Fluttering hands about the face of Krymmen, Less-Visser of Eirin, had the touch of greater meaning than simple fear. Still and perhaps placid, the grin did not break.

"Lord Captain! Please, allow me the honour." A glance to the ravine held no change in facial expression. Kirk watched, fascinated, as the high-pitched thrum of an Eirine voice fluctuated far beyond the native's apparently peaceful visage.

White sclera bulged in Krymmen's flickering attention between the space below and the captain.

To be mindful, and yet ready for action. Kirk tilted his head, a nudge towards honest expression. "That title seems a bit beyond my station, Mr. Krymmen. And what honour do you speak of? The creature is caught."

"But not dead."

"I don't intend to kill it."

"I see, Lord," the grin following suit in an honest downside pull, "that you do not understand what it is. It does not deserve to live."

A distant rumble seemed to mark the end of the crouching man's statement. An eyebrow rose from Kirk's lofty stance on the stones. "Deserve, Mr. Krymmen? And what right do we have to judge that?"

Krymmen shrugged, neck stuck out in stiff contrast to his shoulder blades. The movement of bones showed beneath voluminous layers of light cloth. "You have the power. Who can stand against you?" Dark eyes in the low light, blacker in speech beneath a sickly trill. "Kill it. It is vroma - it is _filth_."

A chirp. Tuned to the swift nature of necessity in remaining reachable while on-duty, Kirk had his communicator open again without thought. "Kirk here."

"Sir. We have the second specimen."

A half-turn from the native kept, he hoped, some level of secrecy to a burst of delight chasing icy temperatures from his fingers. The small dial twisted the degree to lock with the crewman's current channel. "And? Is it alive?"

"Yes, but... But it's not like the other one, captain." The voice, female, hesitated. "It's an avian creature. Not mammalian. Sir, it may not be related at all."

"Hmm." No. This couldn't be coincidence. No, he had to be sure.

That specimen, that glaring inconsistency with their friend in the valley might help answer the questions surely bubbling by now in any curious mind. Not sentient? Not likely.

In the interval of thinking and commanding the mysterious bird to be beamed up, to immediate captivity, a skitter of grainy pebbles announced his second's timely arrival. The captain favoured the sallow figure with a nod.

"Captain." In reply, the polite incline and slow blink.

Spock remained somehow concordant with long limbs and frankly inhuman speed, the jerky grace of an Earth arachnid. The vulcan leapt into the ravine and clambered out of sight.

Krymmen whooped. Not to be beaten, the captain's heart settled in shorter time than Eirine subharmonics curling to silence. He watched the edge of the platform with an expression only to be described as rueful.

He left the native behind. Blind but not helpless in the familiar clamber down alien cliffs, Kirk muttered choice words under his breath.

"Mr. Spock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those availing comments below, thank you for your support.  
> I would ask anyone with the time to help me improve as an author to leave remarks such as this; any places where perhaps dialogue could be cut, less description, more description, more action? With a work low-scale and low-risk as this, practicing editing on it could help me immensely.
> 
> But for anyone lacking the time, or simply here to enjoy the story, welcome and enjoy!
> 
> I would also like to note that all respect goes to authors writing from Spock's perspective.


	4. Chapter 4

** The Assignment **

_ Star Trek – Animorphs _

In the shouts and eventual silence, my thoughts turned inward. I was trapped.

Tobias. Jake... Everyone. I couldn't save my friend. Whatever the green energy did, if it was a weapon, they must have done it to Tobias. He must have fallen. The small bones of a red-tailed hawk, even on the lush greenery of the jungle...

Wolves can't cry. They didn't even have tear ducts. If I was human, it might have been a different story. But not in this chapter. I couldn't show my fear.

The control in wolf morph was never trouble for me, not since the first time. But for once the restlessness and purposeful instinct for survival didn't distract me. It didn't force me to clamp down. Like an old friend, or maybe an old enemy. I didn't know. It was just an animal.

The wolf knew how to mourn despite never having learned it. My morph knew how to feel sorrow. It cowered, and I crouched with it, but the fear came with a knowing.

I'd always wondered if animals had souls. I still think that they do.

Intruders. Ears perked, muscles solid and ready to pounce, a growl pushed past to warn and guard my hurts. Keep out, it said. Fight and win, or fight and die. The wolf wouldn't give up. It knew how to survive this, if my enemies were just other wolves. A sob choked through my mind. If Tobias was awake, he'd have heard it.

A flash of white and the wolf stood. "Yiipe!" The sound made me flinch.

Oh. On three legs.

My forepaw felt like broken wire. A point of bone poked through the flesh of the other. No running like this, unless I really, really had to. Had to go two steps before collapsing, that is. Not far. Oh, it hurt. The movement caught my attention and the snarl came only from me. I think.

Better than normal human night vision, the grey wolf hunted in the night and twilight hours. For all it didn't help me, I saw the sheer v-shaped sides of the trap Tobias had warned me about.

Not just stupid. Criminal. Fool. This was it. I was going to die, hopefully before I could betray my friends.

It took an enemy approaching to snap me out of those useless thoughts.

Despite the excellent hearing and better sense of smell, I saw him first. The pale skin. The long arms and legs. The clearly human body. I knew what he was before my growl stopped the man's advance. No ordinary person had access to tech like that, like dracon beams or, I don't know, teleporting technology. A sour twist in my gut had me lick my chops.

Teleporting. The Yeerks could teleport.

The others had to know about this. I couldn't die here, knowing something that vital. If we could find out where they got it, if the Yeerks had found a people more advanced than even the Andalites...

An image of an elite squad of hork-bajir appearing in the midst of a battle, bolstering what should have been an easy fight, crossed my mind.

A voice that, to the wolf, represented mere sound reverberated around me. The numbness, the pain, the sick feeling of regret. It made falling to those baser instincts so easy. The better choice. I sank in. It felt like giving up the reigns. It felt like someone else could fight and die. Misery, unfortunately, centred me again.

This time, I heard it clearly.

"Life-form," the stranger said. "We do not wish harm on you. Nor on your companion."

I stared. Human. But he didn't smell right. I hadn't noticed it before, not without spilt blood involved, but ordinary people had an earthy, metallic scent. And taste. The pale man, his black hair and severe features, he smelled wrong. I could only describe it like tasting charcoal compared to tasting pennies.

Not that I'd ever put pennies in my mouth before. Promise.

And did I mention that he, because the voice and scent and countless other signs pointed directly to _male_ , spoke English? That realization honestly startled me. And I'm not sure why. It was the most common language spoken on Earth, after all...

Mr. Pennies straightened. The pose seemed unnaturally stiff. A scrape of rock behind him brought my eye to catch the second human to arrive down in the pit with me. The wolf recognized him right away.

Strongest male. The reason for my headache, and a mean right elbow.

The human mind remembered that the new arrival was actually crazy. He'd attacked a fully-grown wolf barehanded and won. It didn't matter to me that the wolf he'd beaten was me. It took some serious guts to face a growling, living predator and try to wrestle it like Tarzan. The focus felt right to shift onto him. I almost forgot about the pale, lanky shadow beside the beefier newcomer.

The newcomer, a smile on his face, greeted the first one with a slap on the shoulder. "Mr. Spock, I'll have to take you with me the next time I go free-climbing," he said. The jovial tone didn't work for me.

But my lack of reaction didn't hide me. The shadowed figures turned to look. I fought the urge to sink down, into the dirt.

So dead. They were just toying with me. I lifted my chin.

I've faced down plenty of insane plots, power-hungry aliens and sheer terror before. A growl woke the cunning mind hiding behind my own.

The second man raised his hands in a universal _'down, girl'_ gesture.

"Whoa, whoa," he said. "I'm not your enemy. We're not here to hurt you."

English. I could understand it. The thought tugged at my mind but I refused to let it distract me. I wasn't totally helpless, so long as I kept my cool. If Beefcake stepped too close, I could do some damage. Maybe. If he didn't reach around and snap my neck with one hand.

"Captain," said Mr. Pennies. It sounded ridiculous but I didn't have time to come up with better nicknames. Did the other one call him something? Mr. Something?

Well. I was half right.

"Yes?"

The finer details were lost in the absence of even moonlight. I could see their shapes, even read where their legs and arms would go a moment before they got there, but I couldn't see their faces. Only when they turned their heads could I see a nose, a forehead, the hair. But though I couldn't see it, a shiver ruffled the fur all the way down my sides. The wolf knew.

Eyes on me. An intelligence. My hackles went all the way up.

The two said something, conferring maybe. The lanky one deferred to the smaller, more compact man. The scent from Beefy matched his namesake; human, and very, very male. The difference was marked with the two of them together. Something was up with that spider-like man.

I hopped back when the inhuman scent approached. It paused. A movement in the air between us had my nose quivering to catch his intent.

You'd be surprised to know how much goes into a smell. What I caught from him was a big, fat coppery nothing. No fear. No anger. Not even happiness, which I didn't get the chance to smell often but always gave some deep part of my wolf morph the warm fuzzies.

Mr. Pennies didn't move. What did move was his hand. It spread mid-air as if grasping for something invisible. I eyed it.

And just as a faint hum of words crossed between us, just as I listened for that moment of triumph, of joy over capturing a helpless Andalite bandit, I began to scream.

Flashes of greenish light. White-hot pain. My ear. Like something biting. Something drilling, pushing through, a fat, disgusting wad of burrowing slug. Helpless to stop it. The touch. The touch of palps on the most secret parts of my mind.

Of my...

Brain...!

<AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!> I screamed.

Quick movement. More. I thrashed. The pain didn't register.

Only the memory. The agony.

The despair.

<AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!>

A siren. An alarm, howling, jaw-breakingly loud. It shook the bones and I collapsed to my chest, suddenly aware of how very helpless I was. But I could scream. I could scream.

I couldn't back then. When I was infested.

When Jake was...

I heaved. Couldn't breathe. Aching for air, I gasped, and the sound stopped. The siren. It stopped.

Oh.

I stared into the dirt. The siren wasn't a siren. Of course. I was in wolf morph. I must have been howling. Like a deranged idiot. The Yeerks would be pleased, to break a bandit so quickly.

But it wasn't shame that stroked my fur. Like a dog. Like I wouldn't bite the hand curling into the soft skin behind my ears.

I was so shocked, I didn't think. The wolf did.

Teeth clacked on empty air.

"Whoa!"

A pressure around my jaws, and I suppressed a flare of panic by clamping down on those jaw muscles. It caught me by surprise. The cold awareness, numb and distant compared to some morphs, retreated a few steps behind the freaking-out Cassie mind. A squelch perked my ears and I realized, tail tucked between my legs, that I couldn't open my mouth anymore.

Cool fingers wrapped around the base of my muzzle. An arm around my neck held everything above my shoulders still. The weird one, he had me.

The grip actually leeched the heat from my body. His flat-out strength didn't budge, even when I wriggled and panted through clenched teeth.

"Spock!" An exclamation a few feet away. "It almost got me!"

"My apologies, Captain. It will not attack again."

The grip barely tightened, but I got the message. He wouldn't let it happen again.

Neither would I. Not such an unintentional attack, anyway. I wouldn't have tried to bite a hand. The jugular was a lot more effective. I winced. That thought sounded a lot more like Rachel than like me. I think. ...I hope.

"Now..." Mr. Pennies murmured. A touch on the fine hair of my nose. The spot below my eye. A finger by my ear. I shivered.

He concentrated. A crease in mind, a fracture of the world just behind my eyes leading from the hand on my face. It was... Confusing. But then it happened again.

Green. Flashes. Infiltration -

<NO!> My screams echoed inside my own head.

Light. Separation. Everything went black and I despaired in the millisecond of knowing. Was this my last second? My last -

Emptiness.

\--

The hairy body finally slumped in the arms of a placid vulcan. Spock lifted his eyes to Kirk's, an unspoken question in the dark pits of his shadowed face.

Kirk didn't bother to shrug. "My apologies, Spock. Did I hit you?"

"Mild secondary energy transfer, Captain. I am well." As if to confirm the captain's query, Spock offered his arms and tucked them away again despite neither having the ocular sense to actually see any injuries. Unperturbed, the long-limbed first officer stood to arrange himself a short distance from the stunned animal. A whirring sounded as Spock began scanning it with his tricorder.

Kirk turned, reaching for his communicator, to let out an audible 'oof'.

The impact barely moved him. Krymmen. The native crouched where he'd fallen, a wild look in his eye. As he watched, blinking, Kirk thought he saw a shift in Krymmen's face. The phaser blast had ruined any night vision he'd gained down in the semi-convenient gully. He wasn't sure of it. Surely that wasn't a look of absolute, putrid hatred?

A Starfleet officer trained to not see the differences between natives of different planets, different species. A form of blindness to combat inherent biases against equal peoples.

But he wasn't blind. And the Eirine people, while humanoid and stunningly similar to the homo sapien, blurred the line between base man and something more pliable. A flatter nose, larger lips, shrunken ears and distinct ripples of flesh from chin to the back of the scalp served to soften native eirine features. It helped form an impression of softness. Of kindness.

So the dossier on the planet said. Spock and an uncommonly unified partner in the form of his chief medical officer had remarked on it. Warned him, in their own way, of unintentionally not taking the Federation liaison seriously.

But even so. A chill raised the hairs of his arms, prickling against sleeves in a most uncomfortable way.

The darkness must be playing tricks. That wasn't a snarled lip. Not a sharp, angler-fish-like tooth biting down on pulpy lips. No. Krymmen looked at him, then, and the next change truly startled him.

His expression opened into the dormant smile and left the shadows behind. Visibly. He looked more closely. Yes, Krymmen's face could be seen now. In this light? A natural night-light, a way to see a face in the midst of darkness?

"Fascinating."

He disregarded the familiar term for a moment.

"My Lord Captain," Krymmen stated. His hands performed the fluttering-about-the-face sigil from before. "You have delivered it. Now, end its misery!"

A touch of heat raised Kirk's voice. "I said I wasn't going to kill it, Mr. Krymmen. And that is that." A glance over his shoulder revealed Spock's lack of interest in the conversation. The angular head bowed over his instruments. "Mr. Spock."

"Captain, I believe we have a mystery on our hands."

Another chill caused the shirt on his back to itch. He rubbed his hands together and stepped up to the being's side, careful not to touch it with his boots. "Specify."

Spock continued to study the tricorder, speaking as if separate from his actions and totally present to answer any questions.

"This being shows no biological sign of intelligence. No increased cranial capacity - however, the brainwave patterns at their most basic level do indicate increased activity." The level voice did not raise concerns about this obvious fallacy with the data. "I will require the ship's computers to complete our data. However, I believe," and something more urgent entered the first officer's voice, his gaze shifted to meet the captain's in clear request, "that it is essential we bring it aboard for immediate medical attention."

A tug on his face did not raise an eyebrow, but Kirk did file his surprise under 'questions to be asked in relative privacy'. Krymmen did not allow for discussion on the creature's positive health. Obviously.

But he couldn't leave the eirine here. Kirk had a job to do. He met the gaze of his officer and nodded, hoping he'd found the eyes and wasn't staring into a pair of nostrils.

"Very good, Mr. Spock; please beam up with our," he paused for lack of a better word for use, "friend and see to it. I will continue with Mr. Krymmen to his village and find out why we've been called out for help."

"And the other creature, Captain?"

Ah. Yes. A smile quirked his lips. "I'm sure you'll find another 'fascinating' specimen in it, Mr. Spock. Just try not to get too excited about studying it until you find out if it's really an intelligent being or not. We don't want to go dissecting our new friends, do we?"

Spock's silence spoke for him. Kirk brushed the skin of his lip, quickly patched up by an irascible crewman of the Enterprise and his trusty dermal regenerator.

He nodded to his friend. Turned to the oily man, not overly surprised to see him standing upright and ready to move. "Shall we?"

Krymmen's head waggle came almost too late for the first-rate Federation man to catch before Kirk had already started up the cliff wall. Like a lizard clinging to a log, the eirine caught up with him and climbed out faster than a simple terran could match.

Golden light flickered and faded into the void behind them.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

_“…to beam up… second biological… position…”_

Hummmm. Tickling. Nothing. Heat.

_“…welcome aboard.”_

_“Engineer…”_

Voices. Lightly. Touch lightly. Caught on the air, the stale air, ears frozen in rest.

_“…caught the wee… containment… ordered.”_

_“…leave them… first… immediate medical… second to begin…”_

Nothing made sense. Like words. Broken before they started. Like chunks missing. Not the parts missed. But they didn’t get all the way in. Something blocking. Mind shut.

No strain. No need. No ability. Just calm.

_“…you didn’t-“_

_“…did not. However… reacted with fear… itself to…”_

Sound. Not a word. Like realization.

_“…alert… medical staff. I… along shortly.”_ Click. “…to Sickbay.”

Voices. Buzzing. A soft buzzing, nice sounds. Not like bees. Not angry. Just flies, landing gently. Harmless. Her eyelid twitched at the imagined touch.

Nothing. Then something. Awareness, she supposed. The concept made sense now where it hadn’t before. She wasn’t sure what was going on. Thinking, hard to do, brought some words back. Like the arms holding her. She was suddenly aware of it. ‘Medical’. ‘Assistance’. Help. Someone needed help. She was good at that. Medical help. Maybe an animal got hurt. She had to help.

A long sigh was the best she could manage.

The journey, as she’d become aware of movement, did not last that long. Time was the next sense to come back, but it didn’t quite feel right. Things happened faster than they should. Like thinking. She’d start at trying to sigh again, forget, and realize the movement had stopped.

As had the background sounds. Lots of people, talking. Walking. Soft footsteps, like on carpet. That word sounded wrong. Carpet. Where did she last see carpet?

Must have been at home. She relaxed into the strong bars of her chair. Her bed. Her resting-spot.

Oh. Arms. Yes, held by arms. She frowned. The movement felt strange on her face. They must be big arms. She wasn’t that small. Rachel was an unfair comparison.

The movement, swift and steady, did not bump her at all. A new rush of air blew along her body and the strangest sensation of being ruffled drew Cassie to blink. The light hurt her eyes. She closed them again.

The next voice didn’t have the power to startle but she did find herself paying attention. Familiar, in a distant way. Friendly. Annoyed. Distant. Wait. That didn’t make sense. But thinking about it made the sleepiness drag her down again. Cassie decided to listen and choose how to react later.

“I’ll not have that thing in my medbay, Mr. Spock.”

Dry and irritated. Dermatitis. She had cream for that. It might not have the same effect on a throat, though. Maybe the problem was deeper. She giggled to herself, whuffing unexpectedly.

Ugh. Her breath. It smelled like dog food.

“Doctor.” From above. The arms. Must be her new friend.

Fresh annoyance, a new rush of words. Practiced and well-spoken, like the speaker had been saying it in front of a mirror. “Did you hear me? I said –“

“I heard you.”

A swift change in the air. Cassie wasn’t quite sure how she knew about it. A lot of things were starting to bother her.

“Then –“

“The Captain would like to investigate this creature on his return; it requires medical attention.” Cool and warm. Level, she supposed, was a better word for it. A tone of familiarity coloured a strict line of words. Orderly.

“Medical –“ the rougher voice sputtered and kept on, not paused for a second by his own shock. “- Spock! I’m a doctor, not a veterinarian!”

“If you are not willing…”

“I didn’t say – look, not in here. I’ve got wounded and that thing probably hasn’t been screened yet.” Quiet from the arms brought a sense of finality to the drawling voice. “The other one’s in there, you can take it in. I’ll get to it when I can.”

Not a movement. No shift. The calm one didn’t even consider it.

“Now, Doctor.”

“No, not now!” Clatter. Metal. “The lieutenant –“

“Has already suffered through your arcane chanting and bitter herbs. He will not suffer more under the watch of your medical staff.”

Every pull of wanting to wake up, to understand, made Cassie sleepier. She wanted to wake up. Wanted to rest. Movement was beyond her; fluttering eyes brought a wave of dizziness, a persistent dull ache over everything. Like a thorny blanket. Like spinning around too much.

Spinning…

“…If you go and interrupt me, one more time…”

But the second voice’s displeasure didn’t stop Cassie’s journey in the arms of her white knight. No. That sounded dumb. She didn’t read stuff like that anymore.

She’d call him something else. Her helper. No, her volunteer. No…

Grumbling, thunder contained by the thin barrier of lips.

“You do complain, McCoy.”

Yes. McCoy did. And Cassie felt some distant part of her thump in a very un-human way. Like an extra limb. Not right. Shouldn’t have another leg. Hmmm. Maybe she hadn’t morphed all the way back yet. Maybe she should fix that.

It came easily. The sensation returned with each change. Not painful, as morphing never directly hurt. Just weird – the feeling of bones disappearing, melting and changing into new shapes. Yes. That was a tail. But she could still morph. Must be within the time limit.

The time limit. How much time? A thud in her chest.

And her two companions, they hadn’t stopped bickering. They didn’t seem to enjoy each other’s company, like she enjoyed resting in their arms. Yet neither walked away.

The first voice, her benefactor, waited for a pause in their conversation. “Doctor. I have an enquiry.”

“Oh, happy day.”

“If you did not prioritise the health of our new guests, why have you placed one of them within one of your workspaces?” A lilt, barely discernible but loud and clear to her current morph’s ears, lifted her friend’s question into something else. Still asking. But not. Hurt to think. But not completely unaware of the answer. Like it was… rhetorical?

She felt her eyes cross at thinking so hard.

He forged on. “Could you not have transferred it to the Life Sciences laboratory?”

Hesitant. Open. Warmer, freer of the earlier attitude. “…You know me, Spock.” Spock. Was that his name? “Might not be human, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth saving.”

“…Indeed, Doctor.”

Whoosh. Air, blowing over them again. That weird feeling. A fluffy featherduster, trailed over skin. New sounds. And scents. Wow. It smelled alive. That couldn’t be right.

<… _Cassie?_ >

\--

My name is Tobias. The most relaxed bird on the planet… Maybe more so. I don't remember ever opening my eyes to soft indoor lighting in my field, from a podium instead of perching in a tree.

But as soon as I realized what happened, the faces moving around me started to close the distance.

Caged. A glass box, twice my height but not wide enough to flap without touching the walls. And the moment my eyes blinked open to peer through the perfectly clear glass, the watchers began to pay special attention to me.

Human. Every one of them. Not a hork-bajir, taxxon or loping gedd among them. No security in case a morph-capable warrior tried one of his larger morphs. I was pretty convinced of that with the lack of agonizing torture over the past twenty minutes. Not so much as an empty threat or even a little sub-Yeerk posturing.

But, hey. The night is young.

I should probably tell you why I’m dealing with a hawk brain. And you might be wondering why I’m thinking about torture. Well, it’s a long story.

My friends and I, we’re kind of a big deal. The secret kind. The Animorphs are the only red line between alien world domination and... well, you know. Freedom. Safety for our families. The others’ families. Mine aren’t really relevant.

To cut a sorry tale short, we took the shortcut through the abandoned construction site between the mall and home. We met someone. He turned out to be the real thing. Alien life, on other planets. On ours.

And as it turns out, not the first.

Tap tap tap.

A look of curiosity. So out of place on the face of an evil, domineering slug. Young. Gently wrinkled crows’ feet in the corners of a slight smile. The man watched me while I looked back. In his hands a chunky black box bleeped under the tip of a nibless pen. Taking notes.

It could be a notepad. Could be a grocery list. How to Cook Earth Birds.

He hunched to see me better, blue sleeves wrinkled over the smooth material of black pants. To look at the freak of nature.

Marco might have remarked on how fitting it was. Finally joining the circus, a freak in a crew of freaks. But I was the biggest abomination of them all, right? Not a boy. Not a hawk. Some kind of amalgamation, a mix of the two, twisted together like a toddler mashing jigsaw pieces where they didn’t belong.

They were right to stare. But that didn’t mean I liked it.

The tapping stopped. A hand hovered just outside the glass walls, at the height of my beak. Where I’d been testing how strong this ‘glass’ might be.

Unbelievable.

“TSEEEEEEEEEER!”

Blue-shirt staggered back. A thrill in my chest settled the restless wave under my wings, the need to move. Foot askew, the guy nearly tripped. A hand on his shoulder steadied him.

I puffed up my feathers and glared. It made me look a lot bigger and, bonus, was something a real hawk would do.

A Yeerk wouldn't shoot a random bird out of the sky. A Yeerk would shoot a suspected Andalite Bandit with no witnesses around. Key word being 'suspected'. I had to look like a real bird. Act like one. They'd have no reason to keep a normal hawk around. Right?

Right. So they'd kill me, toss out the useless dead body. Not much better than this, except they wouldn't get any information out of me. I'd die to keep our secrets. Any of us would.

“Hey,” the shoulder grip loosened and turned the startled man, “are you alright?”

A woman. Face pinched in concern, her hair perched precariously on her head, blonde and swirled like honey.

Actually, no. Could I get a refund for this ride?

A breathy laugh matched what lay on the outside, the appearance of the young man. He laid a hand on his heart. “Yes, he just gave me a bit of a shock!” His grin widened sheepishly.

“Lively, isn’t it?” She smiled as if sharing a secret. Her friend looked in on it, his smile matching her own. “Best not to come too close. That beak looks like it could hurt.”

They moved away together. But I could still hear them.

The man replied, hands waving to express the deep relief at not being gored by my talons. “If we avoided danger at every turn, we wouldn’t be doing our jobs. I don’t think boldness is solely relegated to Command, Sze-Chu.”

She hummed in agreement. They wandered off to play with the colourful buttons on a nearby console.

Sze-Chu. I stumbled over the word in my own head. That wasn't a Yeerk name. It sounded human. Just as they looked.

My gaze could pierce steel. This couldn't be right. No. It must be a trick. Right? Humans with laser weapons. Humans who could chase a wolf at peak endurance, catch a red-tailed hawk unawares no matter the time of day. What could this really be?

It couldn't be true. So it must be a lie. Somehow. Unless...

People in possession of new technology, tech undiscovered by the Yeerks. Untouched, unstudied. Unexpected. Not even the Andalites could teleport, if that's what I'd glimpsed on our chase through the jungle. And teleportation? I could only imagine the possibilities.

Jake'd blow a hernia at that news. Then he'd probably try to hug me. Then use it to do something crazy. Rachel would approve.

Not having to use infiltration morphs, avoiding the dangers of becoming tiny, vulnerable bugs or prey. The time we'd had to exfiltrate the pemalite crystal and faced one of the greatest horrors of our lives. The time we'd been trapped on the Pool Ship, facing two vissers who hated each other enough to let us live a little longer.

Other times. Pushing back far enough, I wouldn't be wearing feathers right now if we'd had that kind of advantage.

It could change everything. It had so much potential.

It was too good to be true.

This had to be some kind of trick. But what? What did the Yeerks expect to get from pretending to a couple of Bandits, suspected Bandits, that humanity could achieve this kind of power level on their own? Draw us out, make us believe that we weren't alone?

That we were safe? That could be it.

I'm never safe. And I never will be. A predator's life is dictated by danger. Starvation, disease, injury, they ruled the skies like I ruled my field.

If they wanted to fool me, they'd chosen the wrong Animorph.

I wondered if it was possible to teleport a Yeerk right out of someone's head.

I’d wandered the floor twice. Looked for flaws. Hoped for a weak spot. But the set-up in this room, with the carpeted floors and soft indoor lighting, it matched the pajama party in their primary colours in there with me. The more time to watch my jailors. And I’m good at watching.

The attitude of these people, their manicured hands and styled hair, it screamed human. Particularly the women. Spotless uniforms, down to the hair follicles. Not a crumb of food. With the chowing habits of my friends – and one friend in particular – it looked downright unnatural.

Trust me. I can literally see a fly buzzing across a baseball field. I can count the ugly little hairs on its legs. These people had incredible hygiene.

A glare caught one of them reaching for a silvery tube lying by the glass. He quickly retreated.

Pretty easily intimidated, for Yeerks.

But for Yeerks, they seemed kind of… harmless. Not Yeerk-like at all. I hadn’t seen one underling fed to a taxxon. Not a sneer or derogatory comment, no batting at the glass to freak me out.

I know Yeerks. Frail. Useless. Demented, galactic threats to public safety. Targets for my razor talons on a clear day, alongside the team who made for pretty convenient distractions in a fight to help me get close. The metal, if it was metal, clacked under my feet. The blood of the big guy in charge of these peons still coated them.

And now, here I was. Public enemy No.1, doing time for my crimes of helping to fight a secret war. To protect our planet.

A cool draft puffed the feathers up all over my body. I hunched down to conserve heat.

Somehow, air was getting into the chamber. It wasn’t big enough to flap up or hover but it wasn’t exactly cruel, in the short term. I could breathe. I could see everything.

But one thing I couldn’t see, and I tried again, worry beating under the carefully controlled message.

<Cassie. Are you there?> I asked, hoping she could hear me.

And again.

<Cassie. Jake. Rachel?>

Anyone. We couldn’t be totally alone. There could be backup. Ax could leap in right now, graceful and in perfect sync with his tail blade. Slicing, whapping the weaponless humans out cold, cutting into the buttons and electronics. Chopping a hole for me to fly out of.

<Marco? Ax, come on, man,> I said for the tenth time.

But nothing. And the people walking to and fro, the ones watching me and waving little salt shakers in the air, they weren't what I'd call good company.

Attentiveness to the hawk. It reminded me of Cassie, actually. Of her parents. Like they wanted to study me. Well, maybe not exactly like Cassie – she cared more about helping than finding out what made me tick.

A hawk takes things as they come. The ultimate realist. What matters? Food. Survival. Hunt. Kill. Eat.

Confines aren’t comfortable, by any means. But clear walls? To the hawk, it was good as sitting on my branch, overlooking the meadow. My meadow. At least for the moment.

So there I was. Smarting in feather and pride.

Getting shot out of the sky is kind of a big no-no in bird society. Only the slowest, the dumbest fly low enough to humans to be shot down. Ducks. Geese. Various 'food' fowl. The occasional endangered bald eagle. Funnily enough, red-tailed hawks aren't shot at much compared to the showy eagles.

Another thing I wouldn't have to worry about, living as the most endangered species in the universe.

Numero uno. Pandas have nothing on me.

Whooooosh.

A door. Equipment behind it. Walking in, two new faces, one of them so odd that I recognized him from the group we'd escaped from earlier. I immediately didn't care about them.

In the arms of the taller, odder one, he cradled a wolf. A wolf whose paws were melting right out where everyone could see them. My heart skipped a beat.

<Cassie?> I said, stunned.

It had to have been her. The same markings. The same wolf we'd all acquired, back in the day. Well. Not me, I guess. But I'd flown over the group in those morphs, over and over again. I'd seen Cassie in that form rip out the throat of a hork-bajir warrior. I knew it was her.

And that was the problem. Even as I watched her legs flowed, suddenly boneless, long tubes of fleshy hair that flopped against the legs of the guy holding her.

She was morphing. Right in front of them.

Bang!

I fell back from the glass. A few eyes turned to me. Yes. Alright.

I squared up again and attacked. It hurt, something in my chest knifed sharp with pain. I did it again. "TSEEEER!"

<CASSIE! Wake up!> I broadcast as loudly as I could in her direction.

The drooping wolf barely twitched. However, the arms holding her tightened. It couldn't be missed, not with these eyes, this close. But it didn't matter. She had to stop! If Cassie demorphed, right here, in front of everyone...!

The glass reverberated under my wings. <Cassie, stop! Stop demorphing! Stop! You have to stay wolf! You have to->

<To...bias...?>

The voice slurred. An image of the sunset, a beach, drifted by. It's a strange thing, thought-speech. If you think about it, no pun intended, you can tell a lot about someone by talking directly mind-to-mind. What I saw in the bleary response didn't calm me down.

Schloop.

Human fingers. Human fingers, where pawpads should be. Strange. Illogical. The weirdness of morphing. I stared as if I could laser them off by the power of hawk vision.

No-one noticed. Cassie, yes, it was definitely her, lay on a bed raised off the ground. A lot more carefully than I'd have expected. Without a perch to get higher and see better, all I could do was flap hard and work with hops to get the occasional look. And if that wasn't suspicious...

She'd heard me, though.

<Cassie, stop demorphing. We can't let them know that we're human,> I begged.

<Stop... Human...> she sighed.

One of the two men that had walked in with her paused. He was looking at her legs.

As I watched, horrified, the fur on her forelegs sucked back into normal, brown skin. Human skin. She wasn't stopping. Cassie didn't understand.

Voices around her. She wasn't tied down. If she could wake up, maybe, maybe she could escape. This room didn't have locks on the doors, unless they were keyed to certain people. Unless a Gleet Bio-Filter sat behind the futuristic whooshing door.

The more alert man reached down. To touch her. A dumbfounded look on his face, intrigue as his fingers ran up the bare arm, a golden ring glinting from his hand.

Cassie's tail began to shrink.

It burst out of me. I couldn't think. Couldn't let the raptor part of me take control, react like a bird.

React like a bird. React. Yes.

“TSEEEEEEEEEEEER!”

I went crazy.

Flapping. Some loose feathers, knocked by wings against glass, littered the bottom of the cage. I struck the walls. The ceiling. Which I noticed, now as I bounced down to push up for another go, capped under the top of a machine. Like the ends of a soda can. Plugged on the top and bottom.

Maddened as a horsefly, I buzzed in every direction. Screeched like a banshee.

But soon, quickly, I couldn't keep up the desperate beat-down on the walls and settled to rest. Rapid, 202-beats-per-minute, a throb against breastbone as I panted and waited for my heart to calm down.

Every one of them, the blue-shirts, two in red, the ones hovering over Cassie, they all wobbled like Jell-O. Reacted to me. Like a field of grass in an unexpected squall. Some knocked against each other. A vial of something fell and splattered from an unwary hand.

A whirl. The gaze of the odd man almost matched mine. Darker. Not so intense.

But the deadly intelligence there reminded me of the time I'd gone up against sharks and almost lost.

What struck me second was that I definitely knew him from somewhere. My head cocked to the side even as I panted, beak open.

Black bowl cut. Hooked nose. Fearsome eyebrows. Whoo, eyebrows of a champion. They didn't completely point in the right direction. It kind of reminded me of the cartoons I'd watch the few times my uncle didn't have the remote. When he slept in after a promising evening of more drinking.

Yeah. It stirred some kind of memory. Something Jake and Marco'd talk about. For hours.

And were those pointed ears?

No lying to a hawk, I guess. But weird. So, so weird.

But behind him, the other one, he cared more about the malforming wolf than about me. I couldn't stop him from reaching down, touching her furry side, two fingers going to the heavy ruff of her neck.

She had to be alive. The dead can't morph. And with a faint grinding sound, pointed teeth boiled down to flat molars.

This was it. This was the end. They’d see it. And there’s nothing I could do to stop it.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

C. Lupus. Caninae, of the canidae family. Carnivorous.

Obviously.

Twelve incisors to grip flesh, four canines for disruption of arterial flow, heavy muscle to bite and crush. Lt. Harvard's medical scans remained as a reconstructed dental mold in his office that this doctor would bet matched the yellowed beauties down to native saliva-based pathogens.

A man didn't need a medical license to identify the animal bleeding all over black synth-leather. What he needed shone like rain in a bottle. What he needed could fill several requisition forms.

In the breadth of a career spanning the past twenty-five years, Leonard 'Bones' McCoy fought death and disease to the very brink of human knowledge. To the breaking point. To the bone.

Despite every lesson, training session and actual experience in medicine concocted by Federation specialists, the galaxy still threw him into the unknown at least once a week. Usually kicking and screaming. Always prepared to fight for the lives of anyone fortunate enough to cross paths with him and a handy hypospray.

Really. At times it boggled the mind how very ungrateful the poor ingrates in his sickbay could be.

Then again, if Bones couldn't handle uncooperative crewmen, he'd chosen the wrong profession.

What the good doctor needed was to understand how, exactly, this prime example of terran fauna made its way to Eirin to finally end up in his medbay.

A prickle in the fingertips, heat, flooding through the blood vessels and gritting his teeth. Callous skin under the hair yielded to cautious prods. When a deeper probing touched moving bones, unless he'd lost all sense of where organs should be, unless this thing had anatomy unpredictable as the surface of a star, he took a firm hold to steady his patient.

Seized the limb. Clenched bile down and swallowed, twice, eyes unseeing to let himself think it through. A moment. All he had.

Changing. Harmful? To the animal - no way of knowing. To human life?

As if seeing the room for the first time, McCoy peered over the stricken beast. Shock and intrigue. Faces drawn for the taste of something new.

"Get out. All of you!" Short waves sent medical personnel on the scurry. Security and those of different scientific persuasion paused on a single step. A scowl set into the depths of his face, the wave now a sharp jab at the exit. "Now!"

No-one disobeyed that tone. Soon it was him, Spock and the... the wolf.

Which wasn't looking very wolf-like. It had the basic shape, sure. But if it hadn't just lost the points of its teeth and the whites of its eyes didn't just roll to show a disturbingly shrunken iris, it might suit the CMO of the Enterprise well to serve up his hat and resign.

Leonard didn't need to know just yet what was causing it. For now, it needed stabilising. Then he could yell at Spock until the commander figured out another pressure-formed diamond of a solution.

The legs, boneless, then not. A soft crunch as they slapped on the bed made him wince but McCoy couldn't wait around and hold its hand. Paw.

A call through the intercom, the professional calm of their resident linguist and communications officer met his medical authority to begin quarantine procedures.

That sealed the deal. And the room.

Soft red lights lit the med-laboratory in a warning glow.

Immediate concern for the crew solved, he could focus. On the malformed wolf body and did it just lose a tail?

Teeth, mutated eyes and missing tail. Entire body changing. The fur missing over boneless legs, probably sensitive, probably - eyes wide at the implication - agonizing.

What on earth was happening to the poor thing's central nervous system? Could it feel those changes? Feel the way a slither of something just under the belly moved down, out of place, a ribbed snake of intestine because what else could it be?

No. He didn't want to know. Stabilise it. Keep it alive. For God's sake, the thing could be sentient. This could be a chance at first contact with a new species.

A coffin wouldn't make a very fine welcome wagon to the Federation, now would it?

Not the proper set-up. A hypospray in hand, fingers parting the heavy pelt to find some skin, McCoy cursed. And hesitated.

There was no way of knowing how it might react to a sedative. To a neural blocker. To anaesthetic, in any dosage. But it could be in pain. He rubbed his own chest, the animal's fur dark against pale skin.

Soft footsteps and the presence of the vulcan at his side made the doctor uncomfortably aware of his own indecision. Spock didn't ask, didn't make a point of it but didn't offer an unasked-for answer either. Not quite normal. Hackles up, McCoy answered in a bark.

"What?"

A pause let the matter settle, probably, from the Lt. Commander's perspective. Spock swept his arms behind his back to stand at a relaxed military rest. Bowed neck allowed an unshaken view of the miracle of science going on right before their eyes.

Said miracle, or disaster if you asked him, sighed.

An eye rolled to look at them, the forward-facing neck moving as fluidly as a doctor could like. Leonard's feet tended to be steady as his hands. He stood stock-still.

Human. Cranial orbit to fit a skull made just like a fellow human being. Even as they watched, it melted and reformed to such a distinctive shape the doctor almost - almost - needed a support to keep standing.

Irises the colour of sunflowers, acidic yellow, leeched in milliseconds.

"Hmmm."

Bones' cornflower blues rolled with the terminal velocity of a doomed rollercoaster compartment.

"Is that really all you can say about this?" He spat, a new surge of bile on his tongue. "Just - look, Spock! It could be - it's dying!"

"I think not, Doctor."

He seethed. "Just let the one with the doctorate make those kind of statements, Mr. Spock."

Not to be caught patting his own back, particularly in such rapidly deteriorating conditions, a touch at his estimate for the creature's carotid artery confirmed that he was thoroughly out of known space. Heading rapidly into experimental practice, his unfortunately new realm of expertise to the detriment of a simple doctor's poor adrenal glands.

And secret medicinal stash.

Spock rattled on in his queer unaffected way. "Your diagnosis?"

"How am I supposed to diagnose something turning into something else?"

The vulcan shifted. Expressionless, as usual. Probably enjoying the indecency of Leonard not having an answer in the face of something medically impossible.

And moved. He blinked. Turned.

Back to him, facing the centre of the lab, hands clasped perhaps more tightly then usual. Bones narrowed his glare to catch a pale green thumb press indents into the opposite palm. Huh. The silent observer, not so impartial after all.

"I have come to understand," Spock intoned, his voice projected to the six corners of the room, "that you understand my speech. That there is an intelligence in you, in your compatriot. We do not wish you harm."

Crunched bones moved in a jerk that threw McCoy's hand down to the wolf's belly. Smooth. Hairless. The legs, he'd seen the two forelegs react in a similar way.

But where a fine set of bony canidae forelimbs once stuck into empty space he found reason to jerk his hands away.

The wolf had become far too human for touching anything down there. Unfamiliar to the sense of intruding on the few barriers to privacy in his profession, McCoy steeled himself. It wasn't just skin. A black substance stretched across the being's abdomen, much like the material of his uniform. Careful, face frozen in a wince, the doctor touched the belly again.

Warm. Yielding. A new firmness, unlike the floppy underside of a quadruped. Muscles that flexed under his expert touch. He had to conclude it felt classically human.

Hairless arms, the skin darkened from pale wolf dermis. Well-kept and moisturised. Five phalanges, spread easily under a questing hand, the joints and tendons working perfectly. Settled as to the hands, McCoy turned his attention to the undeniably ugly nakedness of a mutant dog wearing a black leotard.

Funny how hair changes a being's shape. No. Leonard shook the memory of a sucker-fingered monster and pointless wonderings to meet the wolf-thing's gaze.

It clearly wasn't an animal at this point. Genuine warmth pulled his smile to meet its curiosity, if this new being's race had such an emotion. A startled jolt of just the eyes belied its stillness.

"Hi, there."

It blinked at him. Small, he noticed. The head smaller than his own. Much like a child's. Its lips parted as if to say something, metamorphosing chest flushed out for a breath.

And closed them. The breath rushed through a button nose.

Spock nearly made them both jump out of requisite skins.

"Your companion is safe. It - she, if I am not mistaken - has completed her metamorphosis."

Bones wheeled about, a soft grip on the girl's hands held just so as not to yank on them. "Not yet, she hasn't," he groused, "and how do you know that thing understands you? It might not be like her. Could just be a bird."

"Please do not be afraid." The darn vulcan couldn't care less. Bones hunched his shoulders in a continuous shrug, as if to bat the lack of caring from the room. The girl, his priority, didn't need to be involved with that after such an ordeal. The usual sense of calm running under the desperate need to soothe, to act, kept movement smooth. He turned back to her.

"Hey, now." Not so ugly anymore. The spine had become something less medically frightening. Naked dog legs stretched and, as he watched, cracked audibly. The sound shot straight to his heart.

The prim fingers tightened on his own. She looked up, blank-faced and searching. Another squeeze and she let go. He allowed her arms to fall to the black cushions.

Behind him, Spock introduced himself. The bird did not respond. In fact, it hadn't collided violently with the walls of the containment device since the start of this whole episode. McCoy allowed himself a moment to wonder if it ailed at all. Despite contentions, Spock wasn't often wrong. They might have a second transformation taking place soon, and he'd like to be present for it. Prevent any complications.

The girl's head tilted to the side. Her legs curled comfortably on the table, elbow propped under her to sit half upright.

Curiosity. Yes, they could work with that.

McCoy had the stand.

"Hello." A slow nod and twitch of his fingers. Waving might not be culturally appropriate. "My name is Doctor McCoy. This is a Federation vessel, the U.S.S. Enterprise. We're not going to hurt you."

The light of comprehension brightened her dark eyes. Less a shade than the star-struck void, he noticed. Warmer. Like a rich wood, mahogany. But the creature did not respond. She didn't smile, and he dropped his own, hoping it hadn't frightened her. Instead she strained and pushed herself up to look around the room.

It took something not to hold her there. A concession he made to himself by resting a forefinger against the muscle of her forearm, ready in case she fell.

The girl looked at him now and the bewilderment furrowed her brows together.

"Not gonna hurt you," Bones said again. "We're friends. Uh - yeah. Friends."

Confusion slid into fear, perhaps anger, a distasteful thing that curled her lip. The girl leaned away and curled in on herself. McCoy didn't let his hand drop but didn't press forward, the back of his palm hovering like he might greet a wary dog. "Friends," he insisted, giving his hand a quick shake.

It hissed. He snapped himself back quick, the thought of a poised snake prickling the skin terribly.

"Liar." Her eyes glittered. " _Yeerks_ don't have friends."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCoy is a pleasure to write.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

Cassie here.

I stared. The stranger stared back.

A room suited to a hospital more than for holding prisoners. Off-white and blue carpet, lights at a comfortable level, cushioned beds. Cushions. My senses flooded back in that unusually slow transformation back to girl. Numbness in my fingertips rolled them together, rubbing each pad one by one between opposite thumb and forefinger.

Lying below what could be the most sympathetic Yeerk in the universe. For a slug, he had a great bedside manner.

Drafty breath preceded a southern drawl, the man's face arranged in a strange, sunny blankness. "Oh, well. I suppose we aren't one of those, if they don't have friends." He glanced behind him. The tendons stood out in hyperextension. I looked away. "Right, Spock?"

Spock. I'd heard that name before. He must have been the set of arms, if anything from the past ten minutes could be believed.

A quiet that lasted long enough to tense both of us up. Lean muscle beneath bare, hairy arms raised as the man lifted his eyes to the ceiling. So like a casually frustrated friend of mine. So human.

"My apologies," he continued, peeking up from having his chin on his chest. "My _friend_ over there is likely too _fascinated_ to give a damn. Now, I need to make sure you've got all your extra - bits - in the right place. Mind if I... take a little look?"

My tongue flopped and I paused.

Friends.

Tobias. Where was Tobias? I'd heard... That wasn't a dream, was it?

Red lights bathed us pink, the shadows hiding little but revealing nothing at all. Of course, he could be too small to see. I shifted on the flat table. The skin of my legs rubbed on the black surface with a squeak.

<Cassie?>

Tobias!

Cold relief must have shown. The friendly-apparent man moved in to take my hand. His grip moved down to my wrist. I shuddered but he didn't let go, encircling the tiny bones to tap each one while muttering under his breath.

The palpations continued up to my shoulder. I stared past the blue nylon of his outfit and tried to ignore the familiarity of it all.

<Cassie,> he said more urgently. Then, <Right, you demorphed. If you're awake, make another noise. I can't see past tall, pale and creepy.>

Squeak.

I flushed, face warm, at the stranger's quick glance. His secret smile told me what he thought of mysterious high-pitched sounds. Hey, Yeerks have a sense of humour. This awful day just kept surprising me.

To the collarbone. He politely avoided the more delicate parts of my anatomy. Each rib, counted under his breath.

<Okay. I'll guess that's you. Glad you're okay,> he said. <I'll just, um. Keep talking. Not that you can answer, but they might not realise we're in contact. That's our advantage.>

Patience to sit through being manhandled ended about the time he took my chin between his fingers. My face felt hot against the cold palm.

I slapped his touch away.

"Alright, I think it's time you told me who you really are. And why you're holding me here. Unless you're really Yeerks, after all," I said in my sternest voice. The one that kept the group from splintering and making terrible life choices.

Because what else is this? What else could possibly be going on?

<You tell 'em. Don't trust any of this, it's got to be a trick,> Tobias agreed with me.

The country-style drawler took my bluff and returned it with an icy glare. He was tall. Taller than me, which wasn't saying much. Older, stronger, and looming despite my good metre off the ground.

I've faced death up close. Visser Three - Ax calls him the Abomination, and for good reason. Cannibalistic taxxons, trained switchblade hork-bajir and depraved human Controllers. My friends being torn apart, eaten alive right in front of me.

I've had to take lives. My soul will always be weighed down under impossible choices.

But something in the plain face of my captor made me sit down.

Flop, actually. Hard.

There were round capsules in the ceiling. I looked up and wondered hard at what they did.

For that moment I didn't see his face. But a non-committal grunt made the tight ball in my stomach relax. "Well, then."

"I'm alone," I blurted.

Silence. From everyone. I kept my eyes up. The lump seemed to have migrated to my throat.

Could this work? Did they know? Well, yes, they knew. Tobias saw me demorph. Watched by these two men, even examined, if I read those movements right.

<I'm okay. Don't look at me, just pretend I'm a normal bird. Or, uh, trained. Yeah. Just - just keep them talking. Ugh,> Tobias groaned, <the big guy is still looking at me. He's gonna look like a real idiot when he finds out I'm your average dumb hawk.>

"I'm on my own," swallow and don't look at him, squint right at the lights if you have to, "and that's just my bird. A pet."

<Trained hawk.>

"Trained hawk. He, uh, does tricks. I taught him to fly."

Stupid. Covering for him made him look more suspicious. Even if these two hadn't tried to kill us yet, they might just be waiting for a chance. Might be looking for me to give up something better.

But what was better than two captured Andalite Bandits?

Six Andalite Bandits. An easy answer. They had to be going for the big prize.

I watched a hand hover overhead. He held a small, glassy object. The crystal and miniature wiring woven through it caught the light to sparkle, like corrugated crystal. The deep whirring brought my glance to the blue-eyed guy. Not watching me. Not looking at the threat. He frowned, almost pouted, at the little device. And then he looked down to me.

"So." A friendly pat between not-ever-going-to-be-friends on my arm startled the both of us. "I've told you who I am. Who're you supposed to be?"

Here we go. The questions.

"I'm- um," I squeaked, pinned under the strange ferocity of this bizarre examiner, "I'm Cindy. Cindy Crawford."

The crisp edge of winter cut his every letter into razors. "Cindy. Right. Well, Cindy," the drawl deepened in obvious displeasure, "you're perfectly fine. And I mean perfect. For an unvaccinated specimen of humanity right outta the dark ages."

A new voice made me jump. "May I enquire as to the name of the hawk, miss Crawford?"

I shrank into the examination table.

Black eyebrows painted like angry lines from a cartoon brought the harsh angles of the second, taller man into relief against the comparatively soothing medical backdrop. If the fact that these people chased and shot me in some terrifying rendition of the Fox and the Hound hadn't set me on edge, a sense of being naked, vulnerable and helpless before a real-life example of a pale goblin certainly did.

I'd cowered before that face. In the dark. My leg - I clutched the wrist - shattered.

"Commander, mind butting out? This girl could drop dead of the common cold without some immediate attention."

A quelling look. Immune to the blue-eyed glare, his pointy-eared face looked down at me like I was a particularly interesting insect. My heart thudded.

It became clear, then. In that moment. I was trapped.

Like the wolf, dying in a ravine. The girl, held captive by armed strangers.

The movement of his lips drew a sharp jerk from my arms. His dark gaze bypassed my growing headache, a quirk of an eyebrow his only visible reply. "The avian creature, madam."

<Persistent, isn't he?> Wistful thought-speech. Poor Tobias. Left to himself. <And nice, by the way. Just call me Mulder. As in, Fox.>

"He's just a bird." It felt strange to shrug while lying flat. The bleeping crystal nearly touched my nose, passing down to beep some more somewhere around my navel. Craning my neck let me watch the scary southern guy work. "Um. I call him - Teddy. Sometimes."

<Cuddly, harmless, I think you nailed it there,> Tobias whispered.

Dumb. Dumb, dumb! Why couldn't it be anyone else? Better to take it for the team, sure, I'd never ask someone else to take it for me, but - I never hold up under these kinds of situations! And of all the questions to ask! Surely these goons had a time limit for getting sensitive information out of me?

Dreading the tap of delicate hooves on steel, I held my breath.

The creamy roof had one less face to avoid eye contact with. Oh. Of course. Carpet muffled footsteps. Passing back to presumably the clear box holding my friend, I breathed easier without that hook-nosed gremlin in my face. He'd made a swift exit.

“Teddy,” he began, to Tobias’ closed-circuit amusement.

A commiserating glance from the examiner whose name I just couldn't remember made me giggle. Like a schoolgirl. Who wasn't a prisoner of war.

Right. I'm terrified. One of Marco's terrible jokes would probably have me in hysterics.

_Pshhhh_.

My leg hooked over the table edge before my brain caught up to the strange pressure under the skin of my arm.

Backing away, the picture of innocence, his quick-stepped distance let me down to limp back against the wall. Heavy. Each step dragged but, breath coming faster, the plaster accepted me like a cold hug.

Sagging, breathing helped to keep the useless fear from dropping my knees to the floor.

My arm. No raised skin. No pain, really. But he did something.

"Human." A raised finger. Feet placed under slightly hunched shoulders, poised, hands spread to the sides. The spitting image of a man ready to grab.

A growl from the depths of my throat, the vision of my panicked wolf, brought my hands to my mouth.

"One hundred percent. That's my diagnosis. But," he made a visible effort to relax, catching distress like a satellite dish, "clearly not your bog-standard _homo sapien_. What exactly are you, if y' don't mind my asking?"

"What kind of..." My eyes bugged. For real? No. No-one, particularly a conniving Yeerks, was that stupid. What did it look like? I'd just melted into existence from wolf to girl, under his watch, rewriting the history books on terrible ideas. Why would he ask something so _dumb_?

Another whir from the little device. It looked like a futuristic salt shaker. He waggled it at me, eyebrows raised. Like it should mean something.

<No way.> Tobias almost sounded giddy. <He doesn't get it.>

A long play. It had to be.

He had to be some kind of Yeerk super-spy to play dumb so well. To keep from breaking out the handcuffs and infesting me himself.

But. He’d have all the answers. No reason to. Not to.

My bare thighs caught the ward wall in painful stops and starts. I slid to the floor.

In a rush, his knee brushed my bare foot. Soft palm touching my face. Cool against my forehead, I caught myself leaning into his hand. It lingered in my mind, a faint scent of alcohol.

"You're burning up," he muttered. "That couldn't have caused this reaction. Just some vitamins," added at my silent protest, glaring through bleary eyes. "You're missing out some magnesium, burning through it in fact. Must be stressful, a few seconds with the hobgoblin."

A jerked thumb over his shoulder indicated who the 'hobgoblin' might be.

I snorted. It came out messy. "Funny... Yeerk."

<Cassie,> Tobias said, <you okay? That sounded kind of gross. Actually, he's gone now, I can see it. Eww.>

Way to stay focused, Tobias.

Ministrations came swiftly and, dare I say it, professionally. This man had to be a doctor. A nurse. Had to be. A damp cloth soaked through my skin, the fires banked to an itch that travelled down my back. Wiggling to rub through my leotard barely touched to scratch it.

"Cindy. Cindy," the doctor tapped my cheek, drawing out a groan. "Agh, dammit. Y'know," he grunted, arms under my legs and back as he heaved up to stand, "I'd love to hear more about these 'Yeerks'. They sound like real characters."

"Slimy." Understatement. "Enemy. I mean... not you. I don't mean that. Please."

Confused again. At least I could tell, this time, that something was messing with me. The table straightened me out but I rolled to my side, coughing.

"Spock."

"Yes, Doctor?" Close by. At least my eyes were shut, squeezed against the back of my hand.

It sucked. Felt like I couldn't breathe. The air tasted heavy, solid and hard to swallow. They talked some more and I focused on my skin. The cells. Clean cuticles, fine, not stubby claws. The thought had me scramble to lean over the side. Retching made me feel worse.

I leaned back and burped. It stank. Like, really stank. I hadn't eaten anything as the wolf morph, right? Nothing like rotting meat? Or, say, a skunk?

Problem was, the smell got worse. No more spew but plenty more stink. The heels of my hands dug into my eye sockets. Going crazy. Maybe this was all a fever dream. I'd wake up at home, late to check on the animals, Dad holding back a major dress-down until I slept off some extended homework blues...

Ugh. No, that wasn't just vomit. I could smell musty red-tailed hawk. I could smell that weird, not-human taint all over the pointy gremlin man.

Like the wolf. Like I hadn't demorphed.

<Um... Cassie?>

"Whhaaaaat." Gritting my teeth shut kept another wave from breaking out all over the Doctor's clean trousers.

He said it carefully. A forced lightness against the weight of each word. <You're morphing again. Maybe not a great idea.>

Morphing? But I'd been thinking about being human. That's not how morphing worked. It was against the rules. The universe couldn't just breach itself like that. That's colossally unfair.

And then I started to melt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edits may occur at any time, to any chapter. Consider each complete as they come; a warning will be stated in later chapters if an edit has taken place. Thank you for coming by, and enjoy.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

You know, it should occur to me that not everyone is used to having their skeleton disappear into z-space through a metaphysical straw. But it doesn't. I almost felt sorry for my captors.

Not that I could have stopped it this time. Rubbery flesh sealed my throat shut, voice gone, too late to shout a warning. Most likely to look for an empty bucket.

Hey, they might be Yeerks, but there's war and there's cruel and unusual punishment.

I blew out like an inflatable pool. The morph refused to listen to my desperate focus on human, Cassie, _normal girl_ , a gurgled bubble of air last to exit the backless hole behind shrinking teeth. Boneless, I sagged into the table, arms and legs growing out to pool on the floor. Human spaghetti. Hot prickles under my skin, somehow worse with all the extra surface area to irritate combined with an awful, stomach-rolling feeling of some monstrosity in my stomach.

Ugh. Like that time I'd caught Marco in dog morph eating - well. Better not spoken.

It must have been one of the ugliest transformations I've ever done.

I flopped off the table. A clump of hair, solid and writhing, fell across the doctor's boots. Eyes still human, ears somewhere close to where they should be, his shout of disgust perceived dimly through my dwindling senses. The muscles in my stomach rippled free, pulling my face into the carpet. I couldn't see anything.

<Just in case you missed Guerilla Warfare 101, try _not_ losing it!> Tobias weighed in on my own confusion. <Human! They've already seen you, and that's not your battle morph. Don't be stupid!>

His fear stoked mine in useless twitches through a malformed nervous system.

Nose somewhere on top of my head, mouth fusing downward with a thigh in defiance of any kind of reasonable process of cause-and-effect, the only thought going through my dislocated brain took to a lighter subject. A saner one. My friend, Ax. I wondered how he was.

<Is that a fish? Dolphin? This isn't an aquarium! You'll be crushed!>

He's the one who called me some kind of morphing prodigy. An _estreen_. Capable of making the morphing less horrifying, even beautiful. Ax might have changed his mind to see Tobias pressed against the back of his cage, a long finger stabbing out from my hand and visibly toothed suckers dragging against the glass.

It helped to remember the good old days. I held onto the familiar blue of Ax's coat. The pale green meadows he'd run across to graze, or just for fun. A bird of prey following, playful, in the clouds.

Schloop.

Ears, gone.

<Hello? Earth to Cassie?>

Frightened. Controlled. I'd have replied if my mind hadn't totally surrendered to shutting down my frail, still-human heart.

Creeping under the skin, face slack against the hollow where my skull used to be, an air bubble deflated to concave like a used whoopee cushion. Through all of this, the churning, the familiar pop of organs disappearing and reappearing, a dribble of yellowish fluid leaked out of the sharp-lipped mouth growing out of my leg.

I could still taste it. Acid. The morph's best go at throwing up.

It didn't take long for the tentacles to click through a haze of panic. Cephalopod. Squid. Giant squid. In a dry, controlled environment. The furthest from the ocean it could possibly be. I gasped. Gills.

Air! Panic!

The giant squid isn't blind. In fact, enormous white, bulbous eyes just below the thick mantle bulged out like enormous googly eyes. The room went dark as my forehead ballooned out, eyes shrinking back into the skin. Nothing. My beaked mouth gaped in shock.

And then everything. The soft light cut agony through now-functional squid optics.

<AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!>

I screamed. But giant squids don't have vocal cords. Instead, the screams blasted from my mind. Tobias' thought-speech became background noise.

And then it stopped.

Heavy. Solid in a way no deep-sea creature wanted to be. The tiny room confined the squid like cramming on a boot three sizes too small. The best it could do was sweep across the floor. I'd wrapped around something hard, something reliable, tentacles hugging it against my squishy body.

Movement. Vibrations in the floor. Still no sight in this blazing greenhouse but even the squid's rapidly drying eyes caught simple movement. Tracking it matched senses of contact, taps on my skin.

It tickled.

It opened.

'It' being me. A door, somewhere inexplicable, the brain deep in organs I'd never had the chance to study. My screams shrivelled into whimpers.

Green. Flashes of light. Palps on my... my...

Red. No. Not red. I blinked. Orange. Yellow.

Pale cream. Pinks lined in gold, a rich, vibrant cross of molten sunlight behind the thin vapour of cloud.

I didn’t wake up. I wasn’t asleep.

But something inside told me that this wasn’t real.

Standing alone. Conscious of very little. But that little expanded. Transforming, like the state between girl and osprey, where my eyesight intensified and I again realized there was so much more to the world than I’d ever known.

The sky became huge. Not just the sunset, mesmerized as I had been by it, but indistinct shapes against it. I narrowed my eyes despite no pain or tears from practically looking into the sun. Blueish but closer to purple. Mountains. My face cleared. Yes, mountains.

But I’d just become a giant squid. Screaming. Terrified. Sick… a hand to my stomach touched denim. I looked down.

A normal, human chest. Hands. Hands with nails, familiar brown skin.

A girl again. In slightly poop-stained overalls.

He’d been there before the sun began to set. Solid, cool and immovable. The shadows of the sheer cliffs to his left and right stretched like great hands around us. Silhouetted against that stunning display he stood on two feet, hands behind his back. Facing me.

A man. I knew he’d be there. Somehow, it just made sense. And that frightened me.

The lean figure may have been a statue for not moving an inch. The same sense, knowing he was there, knowing that this wasn’t real, said he wasn’t wasting time watching me. This place… heat on my face reflexively closed my eyes. It felt good against my skin.

I should keep an eye on him. Opening them again made goosebumps run across my body despite the glorious heat.

No-one. He’d disappeared.

And, stepping closer, almost surprised that I could, revealed no footprints in the sand. Standing dead still, I thought. Hard.

Desperately.

A dream. No, a vision. Could it be a vision? The Ellimist?

The master manipulator, as the Andalites call him, had done things like this to us before. To the Animorphs. And there was always a reason.

I just wished he’d show up to tell me about it already. The memory of uncontrollably morphing hadn’t evaporated in my abrupt appearance in this desert.

But that feeling, that crawl across the back of my neck, like smoke wafting between my ears. It felt like being watched. Looking behind me showed nothing. Literally, nothing. The shadows continued into a fading purple-black gradient of nothingness. The void at my back.

I turned to the light, unnerved.

Well. No point in standing so close to the darkness. I moved across the sand, my step just a little lighter and faster than usual.

A brush of cool air, refreshing, flowery, whirled a flurry of sand on the first dune. It looked as good a place as any. I swallowed, relished in the sensation and struggled up it on hand and foot.

He waited for me.

Once again, I knew he would.

I can’t explain how. I’ve cared for so many creatures, become even more. Each with abilities and natural features a human can only dream about. Flight, for one. Echolocation’s one of my favourites. This ‘knowing’ could only be compared to the one time my friends and I became a certain sentient species, far away from home.

Yellow, frog-like, the aquatic Leerans could feel people with their minds. Without seeing. Knowing them in a terribly intimate way.

Telepathy.

It made sense. My gut twisted to remember how it felt to see the minds of the dying, war-torn planet Leera.

So this man – sallow even in the glorious last light – could be sensed through the mind. I didn’t exactly believe in ESP back in the peaceful days before the invasion. Probably still didn’t. But more importantly, I’d never experienced it myself outside of inexplicable alien technology. It wasn’t one of my gifts.

I wasn’t the source.

This person had to be it. The only one in miles of endless desert. Turning around revealed nothing. Oh. The void had gone. So did the cliffs. It was just us.

Me and the man radiating absolute ruthless serenity in the middle of my own personal nightmare.

He had to be the one.

All of this seemed to crawl, caterpillar-pace, through my mind. But not a grain of sand moved by the stranger’s place atop the dune. Blue and charcoal black uniform spotless as if he’d appeared in the desert without having to take a sweaty step. A warning. Awareness.

How long did he wait for me to think it through? Had the time limit already passed?

I didn’t have the internal clock of an Andalite but the sun still hadn’t dropped behind the mountains. So I must still have time. I could still demorph.

I fixed him with a glare. Hands on hips, still breathing a little hard.

Take me back. Let me go.

Help me.

What could I say?

The fingers dug a little deeper into my sides. The revelation that I wasn’t making the weird feelings in this dream-place happen made him seem a little bit bigger. Darker. Stronger. How could I stand up to that?

All too easy to slip into daydreaming. What hurried me back to ‘reality’ this time was the definite sense of being watched. His dark eyes bored into my head.

I shuddered.

I hadn’t just demorphed and remorphed in front of two likely human-Controllers. I’d done it near an imitation-human telepath.

That stink. The inhuman scent. Could my wolf morph have picked up a human-Leeran hybrid? Could that explain the horror, the aversion to crossing the silent figure in the desert?

Blurting things without context had become a habit. “What will you do with me and my friend?”

“Teddy.”

Good Lord, he could speak. I didn’t know if that made me feel better or worse.

No hint of inflection. I heard something else, like static, behind the crackling voice over radio. Like emotional static. Amusement. A definite levity. It transferred between us in the space of a thought.

“I believe this answers one of my queries; it is not a true bird.”

“Well, you knew that already,” I said. Queasy. “Right?”

The being moved. I flinched. The line of his shoulders almost slumped, at ease, a yet-angular shape between me and the distant mountains.

Oh. He’d relaxed. Observing, now. Despite the shadow over his face I could still see his expression. It didn’t give me much. He could have been carved from marble if not for those surprisingly bright eyes.

Eyes so dark they could be black yet lit with curiosity. Interest. “No,” he said. “But you have confirmed a theory. There are two of you.”

Gulp.

“And another hypothesis; that this attempt at duplicity in the midst of true desperation,” an inclined head in what must be condescending faux respect, “marks an ineptitude for deception.”

Ouch. Fists tightened against the tough denim of my jeans. We weren’t inept. We couldn’t be. I’d had to lie, steal, make up stories about sleepovers or getting lost in the forest or recovering from bruises seemingly overnight…

It wasn’t something to be proud of.

“Of course, you are children.” Didn’t he find the heart of my problems with the trained ruthlessness of a Yeerk commander. “It cannot be expected of you to competently lie in my presence. Not as we currently stand, in the process of a mind meld.”

Mind… meld. Ugh. Images of brains soaking in Yeerks like sponges played across my mind.

The focus of his gaze tightened somewhere over my right ear.

It seemed best not to add fuel to the fire and run my mouth again. But the telepath, Spock, according to the other Controller, he could read my mind. Melded with it. I was melded with him. He knew it all.

I’d already lost.

“Madam.” Icy and flat, better suited to the Arctic ice sheets than the flowing form of the desert, the apparent hybrid offered an arm. Like a real gentleman.

What could I do? I took it.

We began to walk together. And as we did, not stumbling despite the cloying depths of silky sand sometimes up to the knee, he spoke.

“I do not wish you harm. Believe in what I say; this space does not permit untruth.”

A breath stirred particles in the air. Imagined, I supposed. Or perhaps my real body in the last stages of suffocation. The scent of flowers from the mouth of the canyon, the starting-place, danced in a sudden gust of wind. Beads of sweat dried on my forehead.

At some point our linked arms became linked hands. They swung between us, fingers intertwined. It made this all seem less real, somehow. The clear sky, cloudless, paled on the horizon. No sunset.

I blinked at the beige skies. Huh.

Our feet scuffed through the desert. Spock moved through it in lean strides, graceful against a graceless land.

“Are we going to be infested, or - killed?”

I almost staggered the word. One syllable made two thick rests under my dry tongue. Killed. Not in battle, but as helpless prisoners.

Polite interest. Holding hands, it suddenly made sense. The feelings I'd had about him came through that physical point.

It was as if our minds, our spirits, merged through interlinked fingers. An amazing combination. Familiar to an Animorph, if reversed - the animal looking back and making its own judgements behind my eyes.

The nakedness of infestation, of having no secrets or way of hiding them.

Spock allowed the harsh wring of my hand to be free, to step away.

A chill swept goosebumps up my arms despite the harsh sun cooking through my overalls. I tucked hands into my armpits. A delicate pause of intent let the shiver run all the way down my spine and into the sand. Very faint wrinkles on his forehead marked the forging of thought, the care to speak well.

Yeerks didn’t execute their enemies cleanly or painlessly. It could be via dracon beam – horribly aware of my every cell being slowly forced apart before exploding into gas and steam – or being sliced up one limb at a time at the blades of a hork-bajir – or eaten alive by taxxons – or beheaded by the swift tail blade of Visser 3 –

His hand in mine stopped the rising panic. My throat clenched and I couldn’t breathe. The touch, cool and distant as it was, helped centre me. I wasn’t dead yet.

Spock allowed a moment more to collect myself.

“Infestation.” Polite interest showed in the short eye contact as we crested another dune. “I do not concur with the vernacular. However, it is not unheard of for alien races across the galactic expanse to interpret such concepts differently.” A long pause. He seemed to gather his thoughts, a distant gaze on the greyed peaks that we presumably intended to reach.

Listening to him had a strange texture, a feel to it. A warmth. Not that he sounded warm. I’d heard computers talk more kindly, more warmly than Spock.

It’s the big words. I felt like I was curled up in Ax’s scoop, or in my barn, listening to him go on about some scientific concept or other that we weren’t supposed to hear. Being primitive humans and all. Z-space this, Escafil device that. Princes and abominations. A living textbook with a loyal, beating heart.

Spock decided. “Please be assured that the Federation does not ‘infest’ any sapient race. Nor does it attempt to do so to more primitive beings, semi-sapient nor animal.”

Hah. Animal. The touch of our hands intensified the connection, I think. The ‘meld’. It went both ways. And despite letting go, that closeness remained.

“Neither is the death penalty legal in our policed space.” The hybrid arched his neck, a proud stance compared to his normal standard of imitating a cardboard cut-out soldier at parade rest. “Even if you were to accrue such criminal charges as to warrant that sentence.”

Federation. I tried the word out loud.

It sounded big. Unified. Even democratic. Very un-Yeerk.

“This space… ‘does not permit untruth’. Right?” A nod. “Well, what’s the Federation? Are you saying that – that you’re part of it? Are you human, like the doctor guy? And how do you have laser weapons? Humans don’t have that level of technology.”

If it went both ways, maybe I could squeeze something out of him. This couldn’t be real. He had to be lying, somehow. If it went both ways…

I had the sense he was smiling. Spock continued to remind me, somewhat painfully, of a certain mouthless centaur likely worried to death about me and Tobias. How the hybrid managed an eye-smile without eyestalks remained a mystery.

“I am not human, madam Crawford.” A hint of remembered pain echoed to the far places of our lonely wilderness. “Our Federation is a united government, representing and assisting a multitude of willing members retaining sovereignty despite their commitment to galactic peace and stability,” he said, bowing his head.

And a very slight quirk of the mouth. “You will find many among our number to bear non-human life that is nevertheless sapient.”

A whisper. Broken. Tired. Alright.

No, not alright. Pressure like squeezing an apple pit between two fingers, popping my chest cut each breath short throughout this whole episode. Despite the vista of a desert on the verge of a dust storm, the reality of imminent death demanded attention.

“Why haven’t you killed us yet?”

Why?

No Animorph had been so helpless as the two of us. Right now, unless this really was all a dream I'd wake up from, I was a squid out of water. A hawk in a cage. Minds open for the taking, even a human body to infest and seize to force a return to Andalite form, if they'd still believe that lie despite the evidence to the contrary.

I felt sick. I just wanted to sleep. To not wake up.

And despite my best efforts, the tiniest, smallest part of me – the one noticing gentle humour in predatory black eyes – wondered.

Can’t let myself go soft. Can’t make the same mistake of trusting a Yeerk with our secrets, our lives, our sacred mission. But crushing ruthlessness just wasn’t me. I needed Marco. He’d tell me the smart thing to do. Rachel’d snap me out of childlike wondering.

It’s that whisper. The one I listened to, voiced when our choices didn’t make sense, when we toed the line between fighting and killing. I trusted it. It’s kept me sane. Kept me in the fight, oddly enough.

You know what it said? Why I felt so tired, my eyes scratchy, feet tender in my sneakers, mind slowly shutting down? Why I couldn’t listen, this one time?

Were these people really Yeerks?

Yeah. It dropped that little bombshell on my very fragile hold on the situation.

And could I trust them, trust them to let us live?

It’s madness. Insane. An Animorph doesn’t think this way. She doesn’t let a question destabilize herself into starting to cry. So maybe I wasn’t an Animorph right then.

Maybe I’m just Cassie.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

My name is Tobias. And, no, my day didn’t improve from being shoved in a cage to be ogled by scientists.

If you can picture it, imagine.

You’re a bird the size of a housecat. You’re also a boy, a person inside the bird’s brain. Clipped wings, boxed up, trapped. Afraid.

And sharp as your talons are, fierce as the hawk’s instincts can be, you’re human enough to think of all the creative ways your captors can end your life. You know of the incredible speed that people can switch from curiosity to sadistic ‘play’.

And your only friend in this whole situation isn’t just losing her mind, but she’s standing beside the most suspect dude of suspicious characters in the group holding you captive. No, not just standing next to him. Shaking his hand. Managing a soft, watery smile.

Shaking hands and smiling.

I shook. But with fear or, or with rage… I don’t know.

Just moments ago my wings were pressed against the glass walls of the cube, covert feathers squashed into weird shapes in my efforts to get away. I couldn’t get out, I knew that. But the hawk couldn’t comprehend invisible walls. It didn’t understand that the person behind the bright orange tentacles and huge serrated beak was my friend. My comrade. She’d never hurt me.

The hawk didn’t really get friends. Solitary hunters, you know.

But maybe I could take a lesson from that one-track, survivalist instinct. I glared at her. Not because I was angry – yet. My natural state. Can’t really smile with a beak, you know?

It couldn’t be Cassie. Not our good-hearted, loyal Cassie. Nothing could turn our girl against us – not tree-hugging, not imminent death, nothing.

I couldn’t comprehend it. She didn’t even look at me. And heedless of my demands, my questions, she was escorted out the door. Out of the room.

Away from me.

<What did…> I said to myself. <…What did they say to you? Is this a trick? Are you… Cassie, what’s going on?>

I didn’t get it. The hawk didn’t care, not really. But the boy’s incomprehension needed an answer.

Then, a draft of fresh air. Not as warm as the circulated atmosphere in my cage. Looking up in a short jerk, I could have curved my keratin lips into a quiet, deadly smile.

A crack.

Whatever material the walls were made from, it shattered easily as glass. The hole was about the size of a coin. Jagged, splintered. Small enough to not be noticed right away. And the last Controller had his back to me, studying something in his hands.

I began to morph. And I sent a message to my friend.

<Cassie, I’m glad you’re okay.> It sounded a little forced. I shoved my feelings down and continued. <We’re in deep dog-doo right now with your, uh, condition. But it’s not your fault. I know that.>

Antennae first. The soft feathers on my chest hardened, heavy, and I controlled a slump to the floor. It didn’t clunk as loudly as I’d feared.

My tail shot back inside my body.

<But – I don’t get why you didn’t talk to me. I mean, maybe – you’re just playing along? I’m just a dumb bird, right?> I made a chuckle ring through the line, very much unlike me. <Just keep yourself safe, okay? I’m going flea. When you get the chance, come find me. I’ll be waiting.>

Don’t worry about the possibilities. The boy’s wondering can wait. I needed to focus, to shrink down, down, legs wired in tight springs to leap and jump. It must have been one of the more rapid morphs I’d ever done. Maybe all the biting I’d taken as a wild bird gave me an affinity for the little blood-suckers.

Head somewhere between feathered and plucked chicken, there was no chance of a grimace showing under creeping mouthparts.

Cassie had changed. In more ways than one. A dying squid one moment – a girl again, the next. The morphing back under control. But not alone. That pointy-eared freak, the one that just didn’t seem right, didn’t smile, didn’t frown. He’d touched her. He’d been near her head, adjusting a grip on her face as she demorphed.

And all I’d had from her was a whispered line about not fighting back. About not burning our bridges. Then she’d been whisked out, the delicate grip on her elbow befitting an honoured guest.

I hadn’t seen her ears behind his back. For that moment of coming to her senses, Cassie had been out of sight.

I felt sick.

My last impressions of the room involved movement. Shouting. The floor vibrated under my completed hairy feet.

I collected them under the tiny speck that was me and jumped.

\--

Just Cassie here.

Air gushed over my dry face.

Nose twitching, I tried to cover it. The smells. Antiseptic. Indefinable marks. Nothing making sense. I needed a different mind to cover this. Despite demorphing, something of it remained. A burn in my nostrils brought tears to my eyes.

Behind me, a red door slid shut. The whoosh had a note of finality to it.

Crystal bleeper working over my chest, Dr. McCoy pursed his lips at the approach of well-groomed staff. Nurses in their futuristic scrubs, all wearing insignias on their chests, none of which I recognized. All human.

"Doctor."

One of the few men. Close-cropped brown curls in a style close to my own, his glance friendly, if distant.

"She's sterile." Short and clipped. A quick glance at me, the way I'd hidden a slight smile under the hand covering my nose, and he clarified, "medically speaking, for regard to her health, of course. We need a complete physical work-up and separate room. Nurse," McCoy waved to an attentive face, a middle-aged woman standing on her toes, "get me a list of vaccinations for base Federation citizenship and begin synthesizing..."

Rattling off names and compounds I didn't recognize, his grip on my elbow guided me past the few individuals lying in bed in a deceptively swift manoeuvre.

It wasn't fast enough.

My throat seized up. Yeah. Smelled it before I saw him.

Not blood. They'd cleaned that up, glued the wounds shut with some kind of clear gel. The bite itself didn't smell anything like an injury. But him. I knew it instinctively.

A pair of wide, curious eyes, free of any kind of fear watched me pass. I stared back, eyes probably wider.

Pressure. The pinch of skin in the crook of my elbow drew me back.

My head swivelled to catch the comments passing over my head. Matronly, in a youthful, wholesome way, my guidance had been transferred to a blonde nurse. Remembering the taste, the excitement, the thrill. I hadn’t even noticed.

She ushered our group of shellshocked teenage girl, three attached aides and a doctor still giving orders past a sliding door. It sealed behind us.

I sighed. My hand dropped an inch. The air held less potency in this ward; not so recently used.

To their credit, the staff didn't interrogate me in all the bustle. I didn't fight the transfer. Too tired, I could say. Dragging my feet. My head hurt, and I looked for an empty bin the moment we passed the threshold.

There's different kinds of tired. I wanted to throw up.

Another reason, I mused, could be related to that hybrid fellow. Dressed in a thin robe to protect my modesty and made to sit on another similar-looking examination bed, I touched my temple.

He'd done something. Or maybe we did, together. We'd talked mind-to-mind. He - Spock - knew more than I could tell.

As if I'd revealed something truly shocking, he'd touched my face in that strange desert dream. I must have looked upset. Apparently dream-Cassie also dribbles embarrassingly from her nose when she cries. Even an emotionless robot could see the tears. And the snot.

The touch didn't feel different from holding hands. An intensity in his eyes, a focus, feeling like a thought had twisted or something deep clipped shut.

Then, as we woke together, everything felt different.

McCoy talked behind the nurse, saying something about sterile fields and supplements. I ran my free hand over the cushions, marvelling at the silky texture.

The collection of old skin cells trapped in the fibres billowed up between my fingers. Unfamiliar. My mouth was open. I closed it. Deep sniffs to identify the person could draw some weird looks.

Someone I’d not met used this bed before me.

"...And get her something to eat." A friendly slap on the shoulder. The doctor's mouth quivered in a brave attempt at a grin. "Can't have a guest not feel at home."

Poor guy. No chance to warn him not to look. I hoped my compassion showed through a lingering look, a treacherous tear still blurring the corner of my eye.

A jaw-cracking yawn surprised me more than the nurse. Her digging at the edges of a warm thermal blanket tucked it under my legs to almost be restrictive. I felt warm and cosy. Cared for. Like my mom would do if I ever got sick. A soft smile lit up her natural beauty. I returned it tentatively.

"You gave us quite a scare," she whispered, rubbing the bare skin of my shoulder with her thumb. The small gesture caught me off guard.

Faint lines crossed her face as she glanced over her shoulder. Following the gaze, blinking muzzily, I peered and silently approved the efficiency of the hospital staff. Past the foot of my bed, trays and labelled capsules lined up in frightening, ever-increasing numbers. Beyond that stood McCoy, covered in a plastic sheet and flashing lights. I lingered on that.

"Now miss," she turned to smooth a fold over my knees, business-like, "do you have any allergies? Can we provide for your comfort?"

I cleared my throat. "No. I'm fine, thanks."

"Very good. My name is Ms. Chapel," she told me. "We're just going to check that you're completely healthy, for our records and your safety."

I made a silent vow to find out more about those 'records'. Stay positive.

"Now, then." Tall, mature and brandishing a silvery tube practically from the hip. Ms. Chapel's smile didn't change one bit. I shrank into my covers. "This won't hurt a bit."

...

Cooler. Pins and needles, hot under drying squid flesh. It faded away.

Roiling dizziness, turning on-end, spinning helplessly. Sick stomach. It lingered. It weakened. Under control.

Controlled. Yes, that's a better word for it.

I didn't like that word.

But I couldn't complain. Losing the gills helped a lot for my girlish figure.

...

What?

…

I’d drifted off. Alone. Quiet. No smells; a faint buzz that lulled me to sleep. No danger.

No danger here. A smile on my face, I tucked my arms under a second blanket and hugged it, tight, around my chin. Drifting away again had never felt so easy.

To a point.

To a deliberate cough, actually.

I bolted upright. In bed. Awake. The darkened room blurred despite rubbing fists across my face, lips numb with sleep. But I didn’t have to see well to see him.

That same haircut, like he’d taken a dessert bowl and sliced off the hair poking out. The uniformly straight pose, shoulders back, chest out and feet together. Looking him up and down woke me up pretty quickly.

Spock waited, eerily silent. To his left and right sat empty metal carts. Once-full carts. The contents of which now swam through my veins. Alongside Andalite morphing technology, various kinds of animal DNA and my own poor beleaguered human blood cells.

He met my squint without expression.

“Miss Crawford.”

A swallow. Dry mouth. Hadn’t stayed awake long enough to take that meal, or a glass of water.

“…Spock.” His name strangely shaped my lips and tongue around it. A hollow sound. My headache had disappeared sometime during my nap. Grateful for it, I shifted to lay back against the automatic bedhead, pleased to find it supporting me without pushing a button. Less traumatic than the lab bench, I had to admit.

But he’d come to visit in the middle of the night for a reason. I cast for a subject I could talk about, something far removed from deserts. “How’s T – Teddy?”

Because I hadn’t given Tobias much before leaving. He hadn’t had much time to be convinced about not giving these people a hard time. Knowing him like I did, Tobias could be stewing quietly over it right now.

Brewing. Making mental soup.

Gosh, I was hungry.

“Your companion.” Spock paused. One for dramatic effect, it seemed. “Your companion disappeared shortly after you were removed to this location.”

I stopped trying to covertly sniff the air. The faint scent of apples could wait.

“Perhaps at your behest,” he said. “I cannot be certain.”

Pfft. Couldn’t be certain. Despite the unnatural stiffness of his yellowish face, I knew the farcity of that one by now.

Wait.

“Teddy is missing?” I had to sound disbelieving. It wasn’t hard.

“He is.” Solemn and blank. Something missing from his eyes. Vision clear after copious blinking, I tilted my head, trying to see it. No gentle humour. Not a hint of concern. Distant.

My fingers warmed the side of my head, a touch to steady myself.

Missing. Lost. No, gone. He wouldn’t be taken like this. The Yeerks weren’t here. Probably. I had to believe that. It’s either no Yeerks and our secret could be saved, or all Yeerks and we’d already lost.

But Tobias! Could he have escaped?

My heart thrummed, a live flicker of hope lapping at my deliberately blank face. Hope from an angle I didn’t expect. Alive, and out. With all of the morphs at his disposal.

Spock approached my bedside to my right, closest to the door. Each step measured to the exact same distance. “Upon this vessel, it is unacceptable to harbour stowaways. In particular,” a sharp edge to the low baritone, “those who may mean harm to the crew.”

“He wouldn’t hurt them.” I hoped it was true. “Not innocents.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He wouldn’t! Not unless they hurt him first, honest!” I pleaded, needing it, this man who’d seen my mind to understand. “It’s not what we do.”

Spock’s eyebrow raised an inch. “’Not what we do’? Specify.”

A frown caught on and I ruthlessly shut it down. “Just us. We don’t hurt people. You know, good… citizens. And all that.”

Beep. Beep.

His chin up, the hybrid studied something behind my head, eyes flickering left and right. Behind me. Slowly, tugging my feet out of the tight covers, I turned around. The loose robe gathered in tight fists as I breathed in and out, willing my chest to loosen up.

On black glass and helpfully labelled as to their function, a sensor suite showed elevation in heart rate. Increased oxygen consumption. Mild to no pain levels. Blood cells… the function for my beating heart moved visibly at a contraction of my chest. Measuring my pulse. As I watched, the little sounds died away to a silent room. My beats per minute fell below the invisible threshold alarm.

If not a foolproof method, at least a working foundation to see if I had any physiological reaction to lying.

Spock met my gaze and shifted to stare over my head, into the darkness. “As I have previously stated, children do not naturally assume duplicity at the required level to create a fool of me. I will not accept falsehoods.” He let it sink in before delivering the final blow. “How may we draw Teddy out to ensure our good intentions?”

Good intentions? Did he think I could trust that? Even non-Yeerks abused power. Even adults, especially adults, could cause harm unintentionally.

“I don’t know.” I didn’t. He hadn’t told me. So I was telling the truth, if the monitor could just stop thinking my natural panic meant an attempt as weaselling out of a question, “- I promise, I don’t know where he is. I told him not to try.” Metaphorically. “Please.”

He hummed. Quite a pleasant sound.

“Very well.”

Spock turned to leave. Three paces from the door, he stopped.

“Normal procedures aboard Federation ships, emphasized upon starships such as the U.S.S. Enterprise,” a small flicker of fingers to the room at large, “dictate peaceful contact with unknown life forms. We have complied with these standards.”

The hybrid seemed to wait for an answer. Eventually, expertly wrangling annoyance, I said “Yeah.”

“Therefore, a more in-depth study of your functions will be required. The state of your health is – fragile.” A blank look over his ironed shoulder. “We have already found multiple contaminants in your blood, which is, primarily, human.”

Oh, no. Please don’t say the Federation has some kind of blood-scooper to ‘clean out’ my blood cells. There’s no way of telling what that might do to my morphing capability. And some of those morphs weren’t exactly easy to acquire in the first place. My face scrunched up at the thought.

I’d worked hard for that DNA.

In an extended pause made awkward by Spock’s refusal to actually face me, I moved under the sheets. Uncomfortable. Nodding seemed to finally satisfy him.

“Miss Crawford.”

Dimmed lights, past curfew among the shrouded beds. The door swished shut behind him before I got a better look.

For someone I’d met in the most intimate of mental contact in my short extra-terrestrial experiences, Spock acted like a stranger. Cold. Afraid to smile. I’m guessing at that one. Very different to the way we’d connected, felt together in the red dream.

Trying too hard, I guessed again.

Well. Fancy trying to sleep after that?

Usually a log after lights-out, the revelation of my friend, Tobias, alone and wandering what he thought was enemy territory kept my mind ticking. Bed smaller than what I’m used to, rolling on my side almost toppled me off the edge. Tossing the blankets off my legs, I slouched and tottered over the carpet, following the incredibly appetizing smell.

Two covered plates. As I approached the knee-high table it bloomed into colour. An automatic light. Smarting from the loss of night vision, I crouched.

The left-hand side had scents that actually made me drool. Salivating, I uncovered it.

And recoiled.

Was this some kind of joke? Feeling sick again, hating the roar of my gut that definitely didn’t want actual raw meat on a plate, I slammed the cover down a bit too hard. The rattle startled me.

Wary now, I lifted the second. It didn’t smell quite so good but my eyes lit up to see something less… natural. Colourful and definitely manufactured.

Three cubes went down easily, two soft as bread and tasting wildly different. The third crunched to reveal pale flesh, like an apple. Too hungry to care, I took the plate away, willing myself to forget the sudden horror of craving red meat like an actual savage. They disappeared down my gullet. I tore them to pieces.

Hands busy to feast, I wandered, almost knocking a glass of water left by the tray I’d taken up. Despite not having drunk anything for a while, I had to force myself to down the whole thing.

Thoughtful. Good, normal things, eating and drinking. A human touch. If you ignored the alien stink coming off the single non-human aboard – Spock. He’d mentioned ‘stowaways’, in relation to a vessel. A ship. Not a sea-faring one, I guessed.

The ‘Enterprise’.

So we were in space. Or docked somewhere on the planet. Now that I concentrated, a very faint hum came from somewhere, background noise alive with it. Not exactly a vibration. Not exactly movement. But it existed.

Space.

That meant no convenient escape route. We were stuck here. And Tobias didn’t have a convenient spot of care from sympathetic humans. He’d disappeared into the ship.

“Tobias,” I whispered. “How can I get through to you?”

Of course the answer to that came from morphing. Morphing meant thought-speak, and thought-speak can be made private, so no-one can hear.

The thing is, I didn’t want to morph.

That partial wolf-morph. The squid. My morphing was suspect. Who knew what might happen if I decided to go wolf again? Or something smaller, like a fly? Spock couldn’t make mind contact with a fly. I think. It had something to do with touching. He could as easily squash me as give me a hand.

Returning to the bed felt like doing something. I sat. Put my head in my hands.

Tobias, you smart idiot. Just don’t do something we’d both regret, I begged to myself. Don’t give them an excuse to break the illusion. Or to actually make enemies with these people, if they’re real.

I needed a chance. Peace had to be possible. It had to be.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

Soundless. Untouched. Free of inertia, velocity and ensuing entropy. The mind is a tool to be mastered.

The flesh obeys the mind.

Respiration occupying the smallest part of vulcan consciousness, degraded function responded at the expected 2.5%, increasing, to newly cycled restrictions. Visual form did not benefit required process past the point of infancy. Therefore, Spock did not visualise the deliberate neural clusters encouraging his chosen behaviours. Instead, a mantra. Familiar.

Breathe in. No friction in the void.

Chosen, as was his wont. Spock set a great deal by matters of choice. It seemed a deficiency of the as-yet unstudied universe to be constantly addressing the natural consequence of preference.

Such consequences appeared to occur at every conceivable moment.

A breath did not require exhalation to the point of an increased oxygen consumption rate over time. It concerned Spock, at times a focus for meditation such as this, to note such inefficiencies within his own behaviour. It seemed most illogical.

The Captain would claim to agree. And still encourage it.

For another sixty standard units within the hours allocated for meditative recourse Spock dwelled upon that. Resolving, for the future, another approach involving additional intuitive appeals to Captain Kirk's interest in vulcan traditions, he began the process of emergence.

He folded the matt, exchanged a soiled uniform for one appropriate to shift work and surveyed the room.

"My quarters. Proficient, for one used to human predeliction for abrupt and oft-uninvited interruption."

Spock waited for the sweet-smelling aroma of incense to be drawn in and nullified by the climate control. Black boot squeaking on the doorframe, a lively step marched past two women in uniform, their nods replied in kind.

A man truly living with two perspectives on existence - 'a foot in two camps'. In the human fondness for endlessly quoting themselves, Spock occasionally bowed to the inevitable and acknowledged the usefulness of such metaphorics. Brevity had a way of communicating feeling. Understandable, for humans. For the crew. He therefore bowed, for the first of many times in a single standard day, to the truth.

Contamination of an ill kind, unreached by modern medicine.

Amusing, perhaps, to note the typical of his chosen mantra could fall so far from his reality. Untouched as an atom in space is untouched. Yet marked, irrevocably changed, by elements beyond his comprehension. A form of dark energy. Existing outside of observable space.

Spock wondered if the Vulcan Science Academy would ever choose to write a thesis on such romantic inclusions. More likely upon the dangers of travelling many years on a purely human vessel.

An empty turbolift provided the form of travel preferred after rest-cycle meditation. Only the hum of rapid transit accompanied his deeper introspection. Settled, a tug to realign his tunic, Spock emerged. He tucked his hands behind his back to walk.

No. To stroll. The ease of his passage, a pause to observe a panel here or the rare window to outside space, caught more than one prolonged glance. Spock paid the crew no mind.

"Travel throughout the cosmos," as if to himself, not quite watching the sensible routes of distant star systems, "both endangers and enriches those enlisted in its study. While I do not find myself taken by the opined beauty of such a view, I do find it - relaxing."

Spock glanced through the window and swept past a blatantly staring yeoman. He stepped swiftly to the side to avoid the laden food tray balanced on her hip.

Entry into the dining hall, the 'Mess', met a level of sound quite equitable.

His meal card provoked soup, warm through the heatproof bowl. A single strand of greenery drifted on the surface. Spock did not comment, not until seated and suitably prepared for the enjoyable flavours of home. Spoon dipped into pulped vegetative material, he stirred. The scents rose the swifter for it.

"I suspect this form of sustenance would not satisfy beings incapable of taste." Plucking the green strand to sniff, delicately, Spock placed it to the side. Amusing. Access to his meal card restricted those who might try their hand at piquing his intellect with such a diversion.

A pity, to choose so lacking a pun. Terran herb thyme only enriched a true bouquet of sensory input in his traditional post-rest cycle meal of plomeek soup. "But I digress."

"Mr. Spock, am I interrupting?"

Shaken from a new direction towards the less pleasing concepts hidden by terran flora in a vulcan dish. Spock had indeed been interrupted. "Mr. Scott," seemed an acceptable compromise.

Rather pallid for the typically ruddy second officer, a veritable crash lingered in ringing ceramic some moments after a volatile seating across the table.

Spock's spoon remained within his bowl. He released it to scratch, languid, below the collar.

"Well, I cannae deny it." Splayed fingers dipped in view and below, the slap on knees audible. "Please don't raise that look at me, Mr. Spock. I just..." The engineer bulged behind what must be a turgid flow of language.

Spock chose not to engage his experience of human linguistic interpretation.

Arched fingers over which to observe instead marked an attentive air. A useful technique for 'conversations' such as these. Silence and an air of sympathy. The chief engineer responded wonderfully.

Mr. Scott collapsed against the back of his chair. A sheen on his brow mopped dry under a disposable napkin clutched in his hand. "It's mad," muttered under his breath. "Mad!" Louder and effusive. A widened eye, pressed between brow and flushed cheek.

The stern attentiveness did not falter. "Mr. Scott. Please be more specific."

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir." A ruffle through admittedly unkempt hair. Presumably another extended Beta shift from the human's extended approach to Mess Call. Spock personally recognized such reluctance to eat immediately after the physical work required in Engineering.

Finely honed and controlled musculature very nearly flinched from an afloat dead skin cell.

"Yes?"

"It's just - look, sir." Upended, a shower of possibly alien dust and stones of coarse grain crumbled before his eyes. The engineer made a show of shaking the holding pouch and tucked it away.

He did not blink.

Yes, an infringement on quarantine, but contained to the appropriated table of high officers. Spock discreetly moved cooling plomeek to his left. He did not wish to imbibe debris upon the completion of Mr. Scott's demonstration. "Samples from the planet." And among those he had not personally come into contact, or study. A piece fit comfortably between thumb and forefinger. Shattered at some point, sharp edges revealing the speckled grain.

The engineer's face came into focus at rest in his chair. A tricorder lay waiting by the dumped materials. Spock acquiesced and gathered the device in a free hand, scanning in base mode first the broken piece and proceeding to the pile.

The Enterprise's fine instrumentation had, on occasion, proven false. But under the keen attention of an engineer of Mr. Scott's quality, the conflicting data should not have raised Spock's rate of information processing.

In particular, at so early an hour.

"Fascinating."

"Y' see, sir? I've calibrated this here scanner, _re_ calibrated, six times!" Mr. Scott threw a particularly venomous glance at the innocuous rock pile.

"Composed primarily of silicate materials, rich in sodium, accompanied by a number of accessory minerals. A marked orbicular structure; similar, if not identical, to Corsite. Quite a remarkable radial arrangement; and herein lies your problem if I am not mistaken, Mr. Scott?"

The full bluster had long since stopped drawing attention. It did not become a man or woman aboard the Enterprise to find amusement in the idiosyncrasies of their commanding officers.

"Aye!"

"Hmm," Spock hummed, head bent to observe the crystalline spheres imbedded in igneous rock.

"The Napoleonite registers as it should," Mr. Scott said between gritted teeth, finally addressing his fried porcine and substitute egg roll. Chewing, eyes distant, he muttered. "But that lattice - the structures simply refuse to be defined. No, I'm sure of it, Mr. Spock." The vulcan closed his mouth. "Consider me emotional, for I am truly vexed."

He set the sample down. "Please put aside your vexations, Chief Engineer, while we eat. I am afraid," a slight twinkle suppressed before it could take root and disturb an otherwise peaceful morning, "that I cannot abide a meat-based addition to my diet, although your appeals to share are most acceptable."

Mr. Scott gaped. The chief science officer averted his gaze.

There are some boundaries, after all, that simply cannot be crossed. Professional courtesy could take so much.

Remembering himself, the jaws slammed shut to chew. Thoughtful.

The soup required attending to, without haste. In the tradition of vulcans at the very threshold of war, Spock raised it to his lips and drank.

A pity to not have time to savour and remember again a time of plomeek made by warm hands. But this, indeed, was Spock's battlefield. And Mr. Scott his beleaguered comrade. "Let us approach from another angle, Mr. Scott. I am aware that your area of study involves the use of dilithium, a crystal with unique properties."

"O' course. We wouldn't be flying on antimatter without those little miracles."

"Indeed." Configuring the tricorder to recapture lost data took Mr. Scott the time to consume his roll. A quick test of new settings found readings to confuse the corsite as an erratic compound. The test may have worked. Spock focused the device on the orbicular crystals.

No clear data. A vulcan does not allow observable, even expected results to affect his or her emotions. Spock laid the scanner down, gaze focused somewhat paradoxically on nothing.

The engineer, face easily drawn in terran-standard gravity, had little patience left for moody scientists. "Sir? Did you get anything?"

"Only in proximity, Mr. Scott. It would seem that the Eirine crystals, opaque to the eye, contain similarities to our pre-mentioned dilithium. Not," a hand held against the shock of waking to truly awesome news, "in a usable state. I doubt it could ever be used in a starship; the manner of reflection, of 'spraying energy' if you will pardon the obscure terminology, would make it quite infeasible."

A drum of fingers on the table. "So if I'm hearin' you correctly... This is a form of napoleonite, containing orbs of crystal that reads as somewhat close to dilithium - but in the opposite sort of way? It reflects energy?"

"Perhaps." The tricorder, inert and now inoperable until reconfiguration, sat innocently by the rock samples. "An intriguing find."

And one he would address, to the full extent of his scientific authority, once the current issue had been addressed. Spock bid the engineer a smooth farewell.

The turbolift did not arrive empty. He paused.

Giving in to the multiple questioning stares, including one of whom had caught his moment by the viewing portal, Spock entered and made his peace. Each to their station, Spock had only the space of .25 minutes to himself.

"Upon exiting the turbolift," rapid, short breaths communicated at speed, "the bridge is the true nerve centre of the ship. The captain of this vessel commands from the bridge; the helm, weapons, communications and science stations -"

Shutting down stream of thought speech required an interval of .01 minutes.

The bridge staff acknowledged Spock's return to shift as he assumed command. No messages from the planet; a simple check-in from the captain, two hours past.

The First Officer of the Enterprise settled in as best his heritage allowed. To wait.

To consider. To believe. A crooked finger beneath his chin.

Spock scratched beneath his collar.

The soft beep of the intercom, forwarded to the arm of his chair, moved that waiting mind. Calm as the night over endless desert, Spock poised for immediate action.

_"Kirk to Enterprise."_


	11. Chapter 11

** The Assignment **

_ Star Trek – Animorphs _

__

__

__

_ "Spock here." _

__

_ "We've come across a small snag down here, Mr. Spock, and could use your expertise." _

__

_ "On my way, Captain." _

__

_ "Oh, and Spock - take the shuttle. And bring a few hands to help with the heavy lifting." _

__

_ "Sir?" _

__

_ "...On the double, mister. Kirk out." _

An appropriately brief briefing to security officers Hendell, Sek, Orlando and Asuf allowed flight down to the original beam-in point within the hour. At times such as these, the proficiency of the crew in last-minute adjustments must be appreciated. This did not require a verbal acknowledgement.

Touchdown on-planet marked a first for Commander Spock. The first sunrise on Eirin. A deep orange wash sparkled through thick foliage, a veritable green umbrella reaching up to half a kilometer from the rainforest proper.

Despite typically rocky foundations beneath widely spaced proto-grass, his first step sank down to the arch of his foot. Spock paused to observe the clearing.

No visitors or waiting responders from the local village. A guide was unnecessary; yet for a people known to honour every occasion to prove courage in facing the unknown, a strange coincidence.

Greater width in pace allowed disembarkment to safer ground. His boot removed itself from the pliable lichen without incident.

"Gentlemen, we will proceed together as per the Captain's instructions," relayed Spock upon completion of a full 360 degree rotatory scan. "Ensign Asuf to remain and guard the shuttlecraft."

Older than the typical befreckled recruit to bolster Security ranks, Mr. Asuf had repositioned himself to the somewhat protected space behind cooled engine nacelles. His commanding officer depended on that experience and level-headed approach to the guarantor of a swift exit.

"On me," Spock said, striking out past needle-like ferns to a wide path cut two feet vertical into the earth. It led them into the shadow of the trees.

Proceeding widely as the forged track allowed, Lieutenant Sek formed the left wing of their staggered v-formation. Ensign Hendell scanned the forest floor for irregularities, typical in the soaked and ever-transforming geomorphology of Eirin, fellow crewman Orlando on point at his side.

Spock kept an even pace just within the limits of the path, avoiding lurid flowering plants creeping among fresh dirt on curling vines.

Quiet conversation among the humans of the landing party left Spock to his own devices.

Sure of their distraction, the vulcan spoke into the tricorder strapped to his torso. Already focused on the many detriments to land travel through highly populated flora, prompted by the unwitting demise of an insectile creature via Mr. Sek's instinctive swat at a 'tickle on his back', the unfortunate specimen allowed for separate, undisturbed study.

If Mr. Orlando had paid attention to the man on his right, he may have become concerned at Mr. Spock's observations.

"A vulcan's circulatory system is at its basis similar to most mammalian species across the cosmos. However, my haemoglobin, unlike that of the humans with whom I serve, is based upon the element of copper. It is unlikely that any creature predilected to consume iron-based blood would be capable of digesting so radically different a substance."

He observed a shrivelled stalk, the husk grey and mottled. In comparison to visible droplets on surrounding plant material, the stem appeared dry, approaching disintegration.

"I have discovered some evidence upon my person," an eye to a pustule on the back of his hand, weeping clear fluid from the angry greenish spot, "of undigested, expelled material in miniature pellet form."

He did not speak for some anecdotes from the landing party and twenty metres further below the trees later.

As if waiting for a response, Spock deliberately released a deep huff of air. Glances from his men did not concern the outwardly stoic vulcan. They returned to a sparse set of commentary now, watching the increasing shadows beneath every bunch and bushel.

He focused. It did not matter to hear nothing, see nothing, from the impulsive collection of mind and instinct somewhere near his scalp.

Nothing.

Zip. Quick flicker, a tiny projectile.

Blurred hand. The pinch could have tapped the finer nerves of an infant, the wings of a terran fly, without harm to either.

He caught it.

Struggling, even biting, was futile. He did not intend to let go.

Panic. Determination. Planning.

Spock increased the force between his fingers. It did not crush the speck of organic life within. However, the motion sensed through sensitive pads ceased.

Recognition.

Spock had never made contact with life so much smaller than himself. Larger, yes. Less defined, indeed.

And yet the sheer force of will held in his hand could have filled the shuttle bay. It almost brought a wince to bear it, this connection so intimate, so close and unstoppable through touch.

He brought the hand close to his mouth. Better to have this conversation now, before meeting with the captain.

"Perhaps this will suffice, Mr. Teddy."

A very strange look from Mr. Sek. Spock made a mental note to commend the lieutenant in his report.

Another stretch of silence, simmering hatred between his fingers. Verbal communication did not provoke response. Spock knew of another option; it did not appease his wish to make peaceful contact and avoid further bewilderment of the fragile peace with a new life form. The Crawford being aboard the Enterprise had, after all, shown remarkable attachment to the Teddy creature.

But this refusal of acknowledgement did not propagate communication. Spock resigned himself to another outburst.

Connect. A brush. The wake of gentle passing, a mind to be taken along and experience the short burst of information he had found most useful in similar situations.

_ I am Spock. Peace. Peace. Friends. _

Nerves coiled, ready, the lax oil of outer recompose a mere epidermal layer to mental shields, Spock braced himself.

Cindy Crawford had not reacted well to mental suggestion.

Teddy opened, in the proverbial sense, like a flower to the sun.

<...Friends, huh.>

Amazed. Spock sensed wariness. In some way more open to the concept than the female, to connection through thought.

<You can talk without using your mouth. I was wondering if you were ever going to shut up.>

Vulcans did not whoop in victory. Spock appeased the sense of gaining a small, very small advancement in the orders set at the beginning of this unusual venture with a long, head-swivelling surveillance of the increasingly waterlogged environment.

<Uh, just so we're clear.> Miniature legs moved in a most disconcerting way within his grip. <I don't trust you. But, you know, I could change my mind. If you let go of me.>

To free the remarkable escapee specimen in so uncontrolled a space did not, in truth, appeal.

Spock relaxed his fingers to decrease the captive pressure, perhaps allowing for the parasite's comfort.

_ Peace. Stillness; questions, answers, freedom and friendship. _

Complex response. Yet the creature Teddy did not speak in fallible, audible verbality.

Among those beings capable of communication through thought, many of whom the lieutenant commander had personal experience with, none used this precise combination of image and personal concept so effectively. In the perfectly understandable euphoria of finally achieving a dialogue, Spock realized, he did not set proper emphasis on the value of Teddy's methods.

Had the female practiced her own mental arts during that traumatic experience in the med-laboratory?

A comment from the leading officer had Spock and Lieutenant Sek swing into the defensive diamond formation. The pinching hand tucked in safely behind his hip.

The road narrowed. A stiff breeze through branches nearly so thick as the struts within the Enterprise's supportive structure cooled the party into a collective shiver. Continuing meant stepping down into a channel filled with water, and to Mr. Hendell's reflexive complaint, knee-high banks of silt. Spock gazed at the black water.

Not toxic. The twigs and greenery carried along by a gentle current did not pose a threat to their health. Their waterproof leg covers, picked out in a fit of motherly pique and pressed upon his team, would unfortunately require a positive note in his mission log.

And with witnesses, Spock did not have the option to feign their necessity and dump the evidence where it may not be discovered.

He did not regret maintaining good health among the crew. Spock did regret having to admit in any professional capacity a sense of gratitude to the ship's CMO.

"Down unto the channel, gentlemen. I will proceed last; do not wait for me. The village," gestured downriver, past the first enormous cranni tree towards the edges of the forest, "lies twenty minutes' march due east."

Tension as a hand cramp barely caused Spock's eyes to flicker. He waited, still as the dead, until the three men had slogged through the mud and half-slid into water.

Then, he followed. He did not react to the temperature, prepared via tricorder reading for icy slush frothing around booted ankles. A vulcan must know their limits; it is not logical to deliberately push on in spite of his natural reaction to the cold. Spock keyed his communicator to that of the team, nodded them on and took his time traversing one of Eirin's many interlocking rivers.

_ Query. Friendship. Memory. _

<That's none of your business. Can't help but notice you're still squishing me,> the insect grumped, searing resentment and a distant, yearning anxiety spreading dark wings over Teddy's intelligent mind.

Free of listening ears, Spock verbalized. "Your ally is still aboard the ship. If I release you, she would be made aware if you were to abandon her there."

The 'voice', in truth a series of images and feelings to communicate without language, implied displeasure. <Yeah. I know.>

Still, he hesitated.

<Look, what have you got to lose?> Teddy hedged. <You still have one of us. I won't disappear, not with C- Cindy trapped up there.>

He drew the hand up to face level, curious. Most curious.

One should not stutter through thought. Repeat, perhaps. Cycle. Reuse. Perhaps an element unique to Teddy's manner of speech. Nevertheless. Spock hummed to himself, stride increasing to escape an uprooted fern's clinging roots. "...Very well. A moment."

For if Teddy was to change in the manner of his fellow, the cool water may have detrimental effects on his health. Spock did not want to place either of them at risk.

And his ankles no longer rolled on a smooth joint. The dexterity required to climb up a bank, still pinching with one hand, using the elbow as a secondary limb with which to force his way through piled vegetative waste, proved difficult.

Spock controlled harsh breathing until his heart stopped pulsing in his gut.

Teddy grew impatient. Not so as to speak again.

The proximity to such restlessness kept a shivering vulcan on the move, rubbing his arms from time to time. Plants grew thickly by the river, shallow as it was, and it took vulcan strength to finally tear through them. Short, controlled cycles of respiration returned to sustainable levels.

On the other side, a clearing. Boulders. Spock's brow furrowed, tricorder raised with a series of questions forming in that formidable mind.

Rocks in the forest. On Eirin. Despite thorough scanning, continued as per regulation to explore the planet's surface without risk to the crew, very few sites beneath the enormous rainforests had seemed to hold any kind of solid rock formations. The mountain range by which the shuttlecraft landed was one of three across the entire planet. This shelf of rock should not be here.

Spock stood in silence until clawed feet clutched at his finger pads. It shook him from a reverie. The clearing, three metres across and open to a larger area for a tall shard of stone, may suit a transformation.

He opened the possibility to Teddy. In respect to his manner of speech, Spock included an example of his own visual perspective.

_ Query. Space. Time, transformation, communication.  _ The image.

Interest. Teddy did not reply for a moment. When he did, the essence of thought seemed... sheepish. <Yeah, that'll do.>

Release. Spock resisted the urge to shake out his hand. The tension dissipated swiftly, a strong release within himself almost physically exhausting in the sense of finality, of relief.

Sharp eyes barely picked the brown speck on his thumb before it flung itself into space.

He peered through the heavy air, stamping his feet on occasion. The atmosphere below the canopy blew thick and warming to the blood, if dim, to the fascination of the science department and one chilled first officer.

But the curious separation of climates above and below the forests of Eirin did not distract Spock from his purpose. He waited.

And waited.

When the grim air drew faint shadows below what he believed to be the rock garden, for standing without action required some activity over the extended time and Spock had an interest in xenoanthropology, eighteen standard minutes had passed.

Teddy did not come back.

He would have sensed its presence if the being had attempted the same methodology of hiding on his person, just as swiftly as Spock had noticed it before.

Touch telepathy had an advantage in such situations, it would seem.

The corner of his mouth almost drooping, almost moved to a lack of non-emotion, Spock brushed his communicator in thought.

Check-in with the team should assuage any concern for his safety. He did so, offering no explanation for his absence.

Well used to the vulcan way of disinclination to unnecessary speech, both Lieutenant Sek and Ensign Asuf signed off without comment. He allowed himself, alone, unsupervised, a very human-like sigh.

"This occasion, while unfortunate," Spock crouched to touch an unlikely stone, "may as of yet turn for the successful." Not emboldened by mere speech, he assured himself, but encouraged as to the potential of the day.

Pebbly, rough. Familiar. His head tilted.

Was this not of the same type as Mr. Scott's specimens? Corsite - Napoleonite? So far from any sources of igneous activity. Perhaps the result of ancient, long-dormant volcanoes, if unlikely, considering the lack of supportive strata in this zone. It called for more samples. He should have brought a carry bag.

One of the boulders seemed different from the rest.

As he crouched before it, cracked, open to the air, a gleam from within drew attention. Fingers curled into the cleft of rock, for it seemed freshly broken, dry despite the recent storm, and likely hid no venomous life forms. Spock did not require a great deal of force to pull the halves apart.

It yawned open between his hands, debris sliding into the dirt.

Yes. Exact to the orbicular crystals of Mr. Scott's vexing samples.

Touching the remains aboard the Enterprise had had no ill effects. Spock was a wise creature; he knew from study and personal experience not to touch strange minerals, crystals in particular, by hand.

Gathered into a waxy leaf larger than his own head, six unique crystals grasped firmly so as not to drop them, he cast a long look over the clearings. Aside from the broken corsite stone, he saw nothing.

No shape. No sound. No proof that Teddy had ever been there.

Head bowed for a moment, Spock turned to slip back into the water. He'd warmed in the mild activity and had no reason to wait. The humans did not move so swiftly as a vulcan late to meet his captain.

This would not be the last of the transforming child. Teddy would return.

Spock was sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this clears up the previous chapter.
> 
> To any readers willing, I would really appreciate honest feedback on how this story reads according to plot structure and 'beats' of action. Upon completion of writing it, I intend to rewrite the whole thing after giving it to respected authors and writers, according to their advice.
> 
> Thank you for your continued patronage.  
> Enjoy!


	12. Chapter 12

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

A ten-minute dash upriver, cold notwithstanding, proved a delicate job of little-used intuition and not insubstantial amounts of fortunate coincidence.

Or, as his human crewmates might term it, 'luck'.

Hand carried so as not to crush or damage the crystallised corsite samples, time and a growing weariness did not allow for further studies of the natural world of Eirin. The heat of the jungle prickled on his shoulders while icy waters stole feeling from his toes.

Moving swiftly required one not to mistake his footing. If the vulcan were to slip, to be covered by that black fluid, he may not have the strength to be of use to the captain.

A bone-rattling shiver beneath synth-plastic leggings wavered his foothold on the fine mud coating the river bottom.

Perhaps Spock might not be able to continue at all, if he were to be submerged. It would be a close thing.

His communicator activated with a click. The others. He did not wish to stop, to stand still and waste time. Continuing with a simple answering 'click' sufficed.

The curve of the shallow river turned left five metres ahead. Passing under tangled vines heavy with deceptively small fruits, his gaze on them, missing the few moments it would take to learn about a potential food source or perhaps a clue as to the eating habits of the wildlife, Spock did not see the brilliant blue light before it was all he could see.

He fell. Into the shallow depths.

Shocking cold, enough to completely blank the burning fever that was his waking mind, took the last moments of lucidity from him.

If Spock had managed another moment - seen the beam of energy, the scowling face behind it - he might have realized the danger in time to avoid the next weeks of torment. But for now, limbs askew, lungs taking contaminated water in frozen hiccups, Spock's life rested in the hands of three men and women dragging him away.

It may have pained him the more to see the grin, delighted, golden as the rising Eirine star, on the face of the human he trusted most.

\--

"Cut the chatter."

Dark chuckles ceased under the sharp cut of the captain's hand. He gave the three individuals a stern look, cold lightning in his eyes. They proceeded in silence, the female's dark ringlets clinging to her face as she manipulated the pinked vulcan's face. He focused on that.

Allowing for the body to breathe, pumping the lungs to clear them of dangerous fluids, had been the first task. Now, moments from new headquarters, Sub-Visser Four-hundred-three accessed his host's memories - ignoring the constant, animalistic growl and futile struggle against his reaching palps - to a disgusted frown.

So fragile. Despite the creature's high ranking among its human allies, this new host had weaknesses he would never contemplate for himself.

Digging further to a howl, distracting if not enjoyable, a short memory attempted to ensnare him.

The yeerk contemplated watching it. Making his host squirm. It related to this being, so important to the host, to 'Kirk', and if nothing else he enjoyed making the reality of the situation clear to a new and subversive slave.

Well. If the colour growing in the alien's cheeks were of such concern to Kirk, the human's concentration split between spitting pointless hostilities at his new master and at worrying for the pitiful figure being dragged over the leaves, perhaps understanding the why of it could be of use.

Why did this human care so about the male captive? Why did an involuntary reaction, uncomfortable, unexpected, cause his host's heart to periodically flutter?

The Sub-Visser decided to take the opportunity by the horns. After all, taking risks had made him the leader, the conqueror he was today. And so another sharp bark had the vulcan dropped in a patch of warm sunlight; a rarity on this planet, as he had been made to be aware.

A fix on the unsteady gaze of his unofficial 'second', Abor 1292, matched his own mood. The fellow yeerk's face split in two at the mouthparts, a human's way of expressing joy. Yes. His head bobbed in a nod.

"Abor, watch the plants. We don't want any unwelcome visitors."

"Why are we stopping - sir?" Heraff 866 spat. An unsure look passed between him and the female, an Evere 1554 if he was not mistaken.

Sub-Visser Four-hundred-three faced the hostility head-on. Shoulders bunched, fists clenched in the frisson of electric energy this body always seemed to be ready to supply, Heraff's off-colour skin paled further when he deliberately towered over the smaller male specimen. It wasn't a case of height. Kirk's stature, though physically powerful - for a human - defied the natural obeisance to a larger and stronger body natural to humans.

In short, he wasn't any taller than Heraff's snivelling body. Yet the unconscious ability to cow another yeerk seemed to express itself naturally in this body. He didn't even need to try.

"Because I ordered it."

"Yes - yes, Sub-Visser, sir." Eyes averted, arms held close to his sides, Heraff refused to give him a reason to make an example of disobedient fools. The Sub-Visser did not feel disappointed about this, exactly. Rather, his irritation piqued by the waste in time, the turned back and complete dismissal of such a weakling should prove discipline enough.

He had better things to do.

"If he starts to wake up, shoot him again."

<No - no! You can't shoot Spock!>

Repetition had its amusements. He held the weapon himself. Deliberately thumbed the activator switch, for which this new host's brain had so easily supplied the necessary information and training in correct usage.

But he hadn't the time for trifles. After all - there would be countless, uncounted hours with which to threaten, to command, to take this little mind apart. It was his. It belonged to him. And it always would.

So, like a good yeerk and commanding officer, Sub-Visser Four-hundred-three restrained himself and sank, deep, into the memory. The one Kirk didn't seem to know what to do with.

He saw those thoughts. The plans. The worries. He saw them all. And it made him chuckle, reverberate the skull with it if he may allow such romanticisms into the situation, to see the care that made his captive mind withdraw from his own worries. Retreat and cool his emotions, hands-off, not worried about the yeerk hunting for such apparently useful intel.

He'd infested many a host. That trick of compliance, of non-interest, did not concern him. Eager now to understand, hungry for it, the Sub-Visser sank himself into a thought of a cold, wintry night. A day and a night spent in the inhospitable reaches of space.

Beyond a starship. Past the protective shields. Drifting, alone, if not for each other. If not for these two beings, alien though they were.

Faint, growing stronger in recall, a muttered voice. It belonged to Kirk. Rasping. Dry.

Coughing. No air. No, there was a little oxygen. Enough to speak, if such expenditure of needed air was truly necessary. The Sub-Visser sneered. That sense of fear, of dying in space, outside protective walls and away from his precious crew. How very human of you, James Tiberius Kirk.

<Foul, destructive thing.> The host watched, too. It could not avoid it. <How dare you take this - take my body, my thoughts! This isn't for you!>

Oh, but it was. It was most certainly his. The yeerk savoured the moment, the breathlessness, the horror of seeing a motionless 'Commander Spock' just out of reach. However the human tried, gloved fingers grasping nothing but vacuum, his ally - his friend - did not respond. Could not, he supposed. If the vulcan's body weakened so in exposure to mere cold, the Sub-Visser did not imagine it would react with vigour to being deprived of breathable air.

Of course, sub-zero temperatures did not allow for mercy. Not even a yeerk would live for long in such conditions. He'd seen it happen. The few to truly provoke a murderous rage from Visser Thirty-Eight.

But he digressed. Here was the answer.

As the commander, Spock, drifted to the right, victim of some nudge to begin an endless rotation in frictionless space, the remembered sorrow and helplessness clamped down on Kirk. The human couldn't reach. Couldn't help. All he could do was talk.

Tasting the foul air, swallowing it to speak, Captain Kirk urged his friend on. To live. To - what? To wake up, yes. But what was that?

The memory paused. It rewound. Like the recording tapes, horribly archaic, on the homeworld of these useful bodies, both he and the host watched the last few moments process again.

And again.

And again.

Sweat despite a frosted visor, a tickle on sensitive mouthparts as the salty droplet travelled down the human's face. His mouth, lips, moved in a specific way. Pause. Earlier state. Continue.

Fascinating. What a time to tell your friend, dying, unresponsive, to 'meditate'.

This human certainly held self-control in high regard. Perhaps meditation had a different meaning to it here. A sub-culture of humans. It merited further study.

But what he cared about was the part the host, the Kirk, avoided. A tell-tale sign from a brand-new host, unused to control, so predictable. The yeerk transmitted a secret 'smile' to the mind held captive in its own head, behind its own eyes, gleeful. Yes. Very responsive.

Meditation. Several prompts came from this. Many less than useful, if swiftly understood, and passed over. Rifling through the less recent editions, Sub-Visser Four-hundred-three finally found what he was looking for.

Mental control. Slowing the heart, the other organs, complete bodily awareness. And, what was this, another skill! A trick with the hands, with the apparently magnificent brain hidden in that reddening skull.

And a warning. The last of the memory played to its unsurprisingly promising end of rescue. But the vulcan Spock did not come out of space unscathed. He'd had to...

Meditate. So it could heal itself. How interesting... And Kirk remembered clearly the shock of an alien face, always sallow, always the yellowish skin that reminded one of the staining chemical iodine, flushed a very human pink. And the fear.

A frantic week of effort. Apparently vulcans should not be pink.

Coming out of his host's mind took several moments. Steadied by the sensations, the touch of the gold cloth and bitter smells of the wilds on this planet, he shook his head. A reflex.

"Evere 1554, you will maintain close contact with the prisoner to share body heat." An unpleasant thought, he agreed silently, but necessary. Her curled lip was the only sign of displeasure in silent obedience to slide arms around the Spock creature.

He considered. "And you too... Heraff 866. No arguments; we need this one alive."

"Yes, Sub-Visser," a quick agreement and wrapping of limbs the yeerk's deliberate attempt to stay in his good graces.

Abor met his eye with a raised eyebrow. Useful indicators, those hairy, ugly things.

"To camp. This 'Spock' requires medical attention. And, of course, the tender care of our personal... technicians."

To his credit, he did not snigger. But the smirks, hidden in a too-familiar nuzzle of human nose under the vulcan's chin, did not enrage him. Sub-Visser Four-hundred-three enjoyed a horror emanating somewhere behind the occipital lobe too much to discourage the lack of professional conduct.

After all, they were not under an official command on Outpost 01-A. Which meant his word, as the only acting Sub-Visser on the planet, was law.

It could make a yeerk shiver. The thrill of a brand-new world, his for the taking. All his.

Kirk blustered on. He listened. Listened with well-deserved glee as they passed the outer limits and into main camp.

And when the sharp points of those strangely lovely alien ears dipped down, greyish fluid lapping past the lobes, against that fierce brow, he lavished the screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the professional feedback, Mira and Stargazer360. When the time comes to completely rewrite this little gem, any improvements in the previous chapter will be directly influenced by your comments.
> 
> There will not be any dedications, comments to specific readers or other disruptive notations on these chapters from this point on. All direct responses will be to comments or private messages. I believe this note section should be for the specific usage of story-related materials; thank you to every commenter and responder, but in particular, to those reading.  
> This is for you.
> 
> Enjoy!


	13. Chapter 13

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

A balanced meal, as they say, balances out.

He'd hoped for a better metaphor to come to mind, but if the faint unease lingering over his oft-used personal study computer meant anything, Dr. McCoy really couldn't be bothered to waste time thinking of another.

Simple porridge, sweetened of course. Liberal sprinkles of fruits and nuts over the nutritionally-enhanced, never-failed-yet breakfast bowl sat solidly by fresh, distilled water, cutlery sparkling silver on the side.

The chief medical officer didn't tend to make house calls bearing food trays but it paid to get on a mysterious visitor's good side. Particularly if that visitor was perfectly capable of taking a literal bite out of anyone who looked at her sideways.

Tray cutting into his hip, a mild curse at how it dug into sore muscle - not bad enough to need regenerating, he didn't like to self-medicate when nature worked just as well - McCoy passed his free hand over the buzzer.

A muffled welcome and step inside met the bad hair day of a Ms. Crawford. Her eyes bulged comically wide, as if shocked to see someone actually enter after ringing the doorbell.

He laid the tray down, glad not to have spilled it this time, to give her a critical look-down.

"Hmmm." Leonard made a show of patting his chin. "Well, now. I don't _see_ any tentacles... Looks like you've made a full recovery, Missy."

The girl rubbed her face. A groan blew between her fingers.

In fact, he'd seen a lot more than missing cartilage and toothy suckers. Most preferred to forget the constant surveillance aboard a Federation vessel, himself included, but for a case like this the footage almost always came in handy. Why, if she'd chosen to go missing like the bird friend of hers, the more advanced security systems could better pick her up in the isolation ward.

And the night before gave him reason for concern. Not necessary for Ms. Crawford to know the most outlandish theories, but in case she had some questions, worries, it didn't sit right with him not to talk it over.

Though it truly rumbled the guts to see a wrinkled nose over sweet, old-fashioned honeyed oats.

"Not to your taste?" He let the disappointment show. It didn't do to put on a face and pretend he didn't mind someone disliking his own home recipe.

That's what he told himself, and McCoy was sticking to it.

A flicker of hurt, or something like fear drew her arms back. The girl hugged herself.

And hell, it didn't hurt to show some true honesty and some genuine concern at the same time.

"I suppose you might like it less sophisticated-like. Maybe it'd go down easier if it were raw," he said, half an eye to the bio-monitors but most attention on the way the poor thing curled up as if he'd made a threat to her safety.

When Ms. Crawford did speak, it squeaked out like a squashed mouse. "No... No, I don't eat that. Raw meat. I mean..." A wary look and grimace preceded picking up the spoon and dipping a tiny mouthful for herself.

The surprised delight started up a storm of bowl-clicking and licking fingers. Truly. Not so sophisticated, then. But hungry. It did a man good to see the small thing filling herself up. It wouldn't surprise him if all that transforming into different creatures, Terran creatures mind you, took a lot of energy.

Dr. McCoy used the distraction to sit. From long practice, he knew exactly how far to perch without falling off the bed or landing on her feet.

When Ms. Cindy finished and yawned, arm politely over what must be an oat-stained mouth, she didn't react poorly to him being so close.

Instead, the girl did the exact thing he'd been doing since she lost the big teeth. Ms. Cindy looked him up and down. Studied him. Now, so close, he felt a little better to take in the details beyond immediate physical health. It helped to not be worrying about everyone both in and out of the room, including himself.

It didn't strike him as unusual, precisely, to be examined by a teenage girl. Yet not quite so young as she might look, was she?

Cindy. Not an odd name, for a human. And the precision, he didn't miss that. It didn't take a genius to see her studying his arms, the muscles shifting as he moved on the bed, lifting just a few inches on hairy forearms to get comfortable. The insignia on the blue Starfleet medical uniform. Even his hair, if there was anything of interest there, though he doubted it.

But humans don't have the ability to turn into different things. People's skulls didn't melt and move around like...

Bones shuddered.

A touch. Not jittery, not defensive, simple surprise and a warm interest to see Cindy reaching out to scrape a finger on his sleeve.

Before he could do a thing, she'd drawn back. Into herself. The blanket, thin but thermal and damn good in the cold of space, drawn up to her shoulders.

Contact. Deliberate.

It decided him. Not that he was going to do anything else, make a different approach, anyway, but it made for a good kick-off. "I thought, maybe, we could get to know each other. You know. From a fresh start."

_Because I know I wouldn't be sleeping that whole scenario off overnight, especially after getting special treatment from our resident Alien Brain Invader_ , profuse enough to make him shiver.

A shift. The girl'd moved her feet. She cleared her throat. Took the water, a sip, watching him without making eye contact. That warm brown gaze met his own concern from time to time. He didn't push it.

"...Yeah. You're a doctor, right?"

Hope. Is that hope? It couldn't be, unless he'd read the whole situation wrong. Or maybe Cindy hadn't been in her right mind before, hadn't understood that McCoy had wanted to help.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm the ship's CMO. Chief Medical Officer," he added in response to a light crush of confusion on her baby-smooth forehead.

"The ship..." Ms. Crawford rubbed her hair, scraping through the short black buds. "Are we in space?"

An eyebrow lifted despite McCoy's decision not to break character. Calm and unsurprised. Safe.

"We sure are, heaven help us."

The snort, a splattery giggle, nearly startled him right off the bed. Now there's the teenage girl. And another question mark that almost set his teeth on edge, heart building to the usual thrill. It didn't make sense. And yes, heaven help him, he couldn't help but glory in it.

"Sorry - sorry, it's just," a chip in her helpless grin, genuine but for a split second he saw the horror cutting at her, "it's been a long couple days."

"I bet. And it's only the mornin' of the second one."

They let the soft beeping of the equipment fill the space. Not knowing everything didn't quite push Leonard like it did his fellows, his friends, and he didn't feel the need to pry. But something about the dawning in Ms. Cindy's eyes gave him a sense waiting would provide, and in very short time.

So he stood. The trays needed cleaning from last night, a faint stink lingering under the second serving cover and even mentioning raw food seemed to provoke a nasty reaction. Disposed of down the chute, and yes, McCoy caught the girl looking away as if he'd believe she wasn't considering throwing herself down after it.

"'S a single chute, no branch-offs, all the way down to recycling." A shrug, passing the stress off easily, as if he didn't mind answering another hapless tourist's questions. "Y' know, disintegration, reintegration as other matter. Food and whatnot. Damn if I know."

To her credit, Ms. Crawford didn't show disappointment. If anything, a growing smile marked new life in her, the teenager practically wiggling under her blankets.

A fine reaction to porridge, if he did say so himself.

"So, Doctor..." The questioning lilt and a hand emerged to gesture caught him on pretty quick.

"McCoy."

"I, uh, need to ask you about something."

"Hmmm." Everything read as good, normal human signs. "I've got some things to ask you about, young lady, so how about we cut a deal?"

She knew where this was going. Practiced patience cupped her hands in her lap, sitting up to let the sheet pool comfortably round her waist.

Making for eye level should help things along. The boxy tricorder and the report loaded on its display screen weighed his palm down 'til it rested on a knee, propped on a stool dragged to her bedside.

"Let's say when either of us ask a question, the other's got a free answer to their own. You ask, then I ask. We can clear the air and get all the confusion done nice and quick." A quick smile, set gaze on the bright eyes to keep from assessing the perfectly fine oval shape of her skull all over again. "Deal?"

"Deal. So, I have a medical question."

Huh. That was quick. He leaned back, arms crossed. Then uncrossed. "Alright, shoot."

It must've been a doozy, as she displayed some ten of the most common signs of shame to typically prevent a person from asking for medical help before finally blurting out, "In your opinion, uh. Say that someone could become a..."

Faster respiration, not high enough to start an alarm. In fact, it might do them all better not to warn someone out of the loop that the girl could show some real signs of distress. He could disable the alarms... No, no. What if she did have some kind of medical emergency? If anyone came barging in without comm'ing him first, anyway, there'd be a breach of protocol, and he could always set the room to a privacy mode if they got to the juicy stuff.

"...An animal. A wolf."

Never actually had it happen right in front of him, but here the prime example was, sweating out what sounded more like a confession than wanting advice. Gaw, she didn't think much of his mental capacity if the girl thought she'd get away with that one. Her dark skin flushed darker still under a level stare.

"...Yeah. I think I've heard that one before."

"But what if that's normal - and, the way they turned into one was fine and made sense, sort of, but this time it didn't. This time it didn't happen like it should, and it kept going, and it won't go away -"

Heart rate fairly steady, despite the babble. She ignored a raised hand, a feeble attempt to keep her calm and keep the floodgates open, keep her talking.

"- And now she's half girl, half wolf, and it's all wrong and I've lost my control." Hiccups. A grip on the loose gown over her chest moved with the diaphragm, breathing still not quite fast enough to cause real concern. "And - and I smelled it." Teary gaze, strangely pink on the cusp of spilling over. "And I wanted to -"

Pink tears. Blood.

A real wail. "I wanted to eat it raw! Like some kind of _animal_!"

Finally, a spike. McCoy used the opportunity of coming to her side, rubbing her back as Cindy sobbed her poor heart out, to disable the alarms. They flicked off quiet and without a fuss from his patient. The clutch of her arms around one of his own almost dragged the doctor down to his knees and, throat tight, he let himself sink down to wrap both around her.

It seemed paltry. Yet the little sounds, cooing, ones appropriate to a teenage girl experiencing some rapid body changes (and didn't that sound just ridiculous in this situation, helping a youth through some sort of alien space puberty) let the girl cry in peace. Beads of bloodied tears dripped on his fingers.

A gasp. It wracked the both of them, almost moved the bed. Unsettled, thinking about bright orange shellfish with jagged beaks, McCoy thought he might stand back and give her some space.

"I." Gasp. Pause for breath. "I'm not an animal. I'm just a girl, and I... I'm not a wolf. But I can smell things... And it smelled good." She licked pale lips.

"...It sounds like you're experiencing... a lot of changes. Bodily ones. Perhaps a tad more dramatic than the normal, human kind-"

"But I am human!"

This close, the faint grease on her cheeks, every thirsty pore, sleepy discharge tainted red in that infuriating closeness to the familiar and understood left nothing to the imagination. Breath raw, honestly foul as a dead thing and coming too short for his comfort, Cindy Crawford honestly believed what she'd just blurted out.

And the way she nibbled her lip, teeth perfectly formed and white as cottonfields. A form of understanding, then. Bones didn't sit back, didn't pull away. He sat to wait, knees complaining very shortly.

Any composure left crumpled inwards to a softly sobbed "Sorry," to which McCoy mistakenly gave his forgiveness. Cindy wiped her eyes and steeled herself.

"Look. I'm asking - because it's happening to me. And it doesn't make sense. So, I wanted to know, if you think there's something wrong with me."

"Beyond the obvious?" No, wrong tactic. "We'll leave the 'human' claim for a moment. Well. I suppose, if you - er, this person we're speakin' of, can just turn into a four-legged sort at a moment's notice, then I wouldn't be surprised at all at any side effects. Could be a natural reaction."

Sniffle. "Never happened b'fore though." The trembling started to numb his arm through her fingers.

McCoy said it carefully. "And this isn't her first rodeo? Has she been doing this for a long time?"

The whisper of cloth over a restless leg. The grip weakened, then dug in, talons made flesh in the muscle and connecting membrane between his radius and ulna. As if waiting for an answer she already knew, thin schoolgirl muscles barely visible despite the tension radiating out of her, Cindy peered up at him. An intense scrutiny. Looking for something.

He didn't dare move. It felt strong, if he could put it that way. Momentous. About to break in.

"...Yes. For over a year."

Warmth in the way of a mild, short fever brought the faint taste of bile to his next considered response. After all, McCoy told himself, he'd known their little chat would go this way eventually. All he had to do was bring out the real reason for coming in this morning, show her the report, make good on the back-and-forth promise and get out with his skin intact.

What he hadn't exactly considered, despite knowing better, hunched miserably by his side and clung to the first sign of humanity thrown her way.

But Lord, if it didn't creak the black alloy under his grip to hear that this girl, this little crying child, had been at it for over a year...

And at what? Not just the transforming, no, not just going through what must be a traumatic experience, but going through it over and over, back and forth. According to this now, not even ending when it should've.

But let's not stop there. The doctor shook his head, determined to say it. "And not just the wolfening. I hear there's been a lot of trauma going on in your life, missy, and no mistake."

Cindy sounded genuinely bewildered. "What's that?"

Fiddling with the edges of it, head ducked, McCoy produced his coup-de-grace. It sat in his palms like a particularly ugly Christmas present. Before the eyes bulged out of her skull, and with his luck and her strange abilities that might not be out of the realm of possibility, he pressed the report to play in audio. Resting on her lap, it played the dry auditory cardboard of a regulation Second Officer log.

Had to say something. Foolish, cowardly to leave it all to someone else's audio log, and Dr. McCoy wasn't any kind of coward. "Remember when you woke up, turned off the squiddy tentacles?" Her slow nod, gaze flickering between her and the blank screen. "Well, the man speaking now, you probably recognize him. His name is Spock."

"Yeah, I know Mr. Spock." Dazed. A check of palm on her forehead didn't make for high temperature but he kept a closer watch on the dried blood tears, ignoring the shock turned faint amusement as Cindy accepted attention without a fuss.

"Spock is a Vulcan; a telepathic race."

"Yes, he - he touched me. Held my hand."

Quite an intense touch to get the reaction he'd been wringing out of a bare-bones log sent through encrypted channels to the CMO's priority box.

Spock began the report. McCoy paused it. Tried sympathetic, dropped it a syllable in, adopted the honesty of shared experience. "He did a lot more than that. Spock didn't mean to pry, but he saw things in your mind. He saw a lot of terror. A lot of bloodshed."

And didn't the girl not look surprised at all. Morose. Bottom lip trembling, she cast her gaze around the room. Avoided him.

"I don't say it to bother you, just wanted you to know I've already listened to this. It's not pretty, and as I've been trained in psychology as well as my usual trade..."

Disbelief, short terror in an animalistic baring of teeth and huff straight through her nose.

Goose bumps prickled all the way up his arms, the burst of dark stormy cave memory a shot of adrenalin right when Bones needed some patience, and her look of mixed condemnation and regret must be that wolf sense of smell picking up a noseful of pheromones.

Dr. Leonard Horatio McCoy might feel a bit fearful, at times. He might even be brave enough to say it. But in no way, shape or form did he back down when someone needed his help.

And this girl hadn't one lick of the stubbornness, the rebellion, of his own Joanna.

This mighty beast of the wilds quailed below a tempered Georgian stare-down.

"...so let's have a listen, and I'll be right here with you."


	14. Chapter 14

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

_Personal log, stardate 5801.01._

_This entry will serve as a comprehensive log for further study of recent events. Upon completion, it will be sent to those capable of responding to the potential threats stated therein._

_I trust those involved to maintain confidentiality regarding vulnerable persons within our charge._

_The Enterprise has taken onboard two individuals, originally referred to as 'specimens', in a violent undertaking. Intent to open first contact with a new race necessitated their pacification. After two attempts at opening a mind meld, rebuffed by the female, the third found success and I gained entry to her innermost thoughts._

_In respect for her privacy, I have allowed for the moniker 'Cindy Crawford' despite unwitting shared information to the contrary. This may be one of the few respects for personhood we can afford at this time._

_I found myself in the midst of powerful emotion. Memories, influences, of a most grievous sort._

_Our new visitors, Cindy and her companion 'Teddy', are not of alien origin. Both are human. Her mental state, subjected to terrors fit to break a lesser being, spoke to baseline organic and psychic structures of every human being I have encountered. She has suffered. Terrible pain._

_The log will mark my difficulty in comprehending how a child may be sent to commit war on behalf of unwitting, or perhaps unwilling adults. In her I sensed a strong paranoia and at times unwilling commitment to the fight._

_It became clear that these two could not be human, as we understand the term. No wars have been fought on Earth for two centuries. Yet the skyline and culture witnessed through her eyes, if I am not mistaken, belong to the late 20th century. If she does originate from Earth, it is not the Earth we know._

_Time travel. I suspect a form of interdimensional displacement as well. Most troubling._

_Contamination from exposure to our culture and technology may be irreversible at this point. Returning our guests to their own continuum is necessary, but I fear for the world they left behind._

_For this record, I will state the following facts:_

_Two interdimensional time travellers, contacted by advanced civilization despite primitive backgrounds._

_Alternate-Terran origin._

_A disturbance in the peace unlike that of our own timeline, denoting some great struggle in an alternate Earth's history._

_A lack of surprise or ignorant fear in response to advanced technology, relating to said struggle with an unsettling familiarity._

_Of most concern, a race of beings known to the children as 'Yeerks', capable of appearing entirely human._

_Incredible loss and pain in the human known as Cindy, a tragic example of the ancient human term 'child soldier'._

_Following meditation on these facts, my decision to reveal this data despite an unfortunate breach of confidentiality through an uninformed meld may be seen as necessary._

_It pains me._

_However, personal and professional review reveals the dangerous qualities inherent in them._

_These Yeerks. They may not have remained in their universe of origin. It may be necessary to further interrogate the child for our own protection - and for her own._

_End log._

\--

Click.

The small sound echoed, despite padded corners meant to muffle most acoustics.

Having spoken plenty for one morning, despite talking and holding hands and whatever else required the doctor at his post, the well-trained vocal chords crackled. “So, you see… you see my problem.”

If McCoy had ever needed to apply the term ‘thousand-yard stare’ to a preteen barely outta diapers in all his distinguished service, it might have let him breathe. Might have loosened up the terrible storm clawing his heart down, dragging it like fresh fruit off a low-hanging branch into being coldly numb.

Cindy tried a smile. It fit her face better than the crying, maybe. Leonard unconsciously felt for his own pulse, noted the racing to nowhere.

“I guess your friend is more like I thought, mister.” Her face glinted as she turned to wipe, hard, at a cheek. Pink crystals left on her face sparkled where they’d stuck beyond a dry scrub.

“Miss…” Stool a comfortable distance, he thought, and scampered it an inch closer. Caught her eye. “I’m sorry. I need to talk to you about those Yuck things.”

Yes. There’s a little grin. Another hard scrub wiped it and a pink scatter away. He took it as the victory it was.

“It’s, um… it’s Yeerk. Not Yuck.”

Wiggle the eyebrows. Catch the edge of her blanket between his fingers, keep far enough to reach over a distance and overextend the torso. Allow an admittedly cheeky smile when she giggles. Not so hardened, Mr. Spock. Maybe not the tin soldier you were imagining. Not – damaged.

Not permanently. He hoped.

“Could’a fooled me! Well, I suppose I wouldn’t know anything about ‘em aside from apparently looking like one.” A pause. Hopefully for comedic effect, if McCoy could dredge up a smidge of confidence to pull it off. “A Yuck.”

Cindy shrugged. Not Cindy. Well, yeah, suppose she was Cindy for now. He kept the frown off his face through significant effort.

“No. You don’t look like one at all.”

Soft skin. Smooth on the raised veins of his wrist. Her thumb slid over them, over the back of his hand. Stretched so far to keep that safety, that distance, started to hurt. Cindy met his eyes and the softness there took the last of his breath away.

“Dr. McCoy, my name isn’t important, but you need to know what these Yeerks are capable of. What to look for, if they,” a swallow ducking her head, hot determination lifting it to lock eyes with him again, “if they start doing here what they’re doing back home.”

It wouldn’t do to injure himself like this, so Bones inched closer. No sign of fear from the girl, and he sat it directly to her right. Cindy held on to him. The contact drifted but she didn’t let it end.

Words fell out, one at a time. Slowly. Gaining speed as her grip tightened, a comfort becoming dull pain that Bones didn’t have the heart to stop. She looked at everything, at him, at the walls, off to the right and left. Some of it probably wasn’t true.

He didn’t care. Enough had to be.

“The Yeerks are parasites. They, they look like slugs. But they’re a lot worse than the common garden variety. Alien. Not that,” waving her free hand and a little panicked, “that alien is bad. I’ve met good aliens, too. But the Yeerks… they’re evil.”

“Evil?”

“They’re slavers.” Dropped in the hush between them, cold and solid as a torpedo. “Body snatchers.”

How could a slug-like parasite snatch bodies? You’d think Leonard would know better than to ask himself, anyone, questions he didn’t want the answer to.

Cindy answered the quiver on his face, waiting for it. “It’s how they conquer entire worlds. I’ve seen it happen, to my, to my friend, J – Jonas. No, not his real name either,” impatience clipping the words til he barely caught the meaning, “but who cares? Yeerks climb into your head. They go into your brain. Then they take everything.”

Jonas. Glad to be past needing written notes, Bones let it flow without stopping to ask.

Wiping her nose, unhappily dry, Cindy didn’t let him get up to collect more water. Insistent on holding his hand, she actually glared until McCoy sat down again.

“Let me finish. Yeerks can look like anyone. Act like anyone. They don’t just take your bodies, they take your soul and smile like everything’s okay. They use your hands and tongue to lie and trap your friends, your loved ones, than drag them down, kicking and screaming, to the Pool. The Yeerk Pool.”

Take your… Bones nearly started, fingers falling from his ear at her knowing gaze.

She sighed. “Yeerks are the enemy I’ve been… we’ve been fighting.”

“…For over a year.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

A deep, deeper sigh and she slumped against the cushions. The youngest she’d looked since that first moment of waking after the Frankensteinian horror he had to swallow and accept, somehow, as the current medical practitioner of this actually wounded charge, no matter the incredible childish resilience keeping her stable. Keeping Cindy able to recount it. Any of it.

If Dr. McCoy didn’t have the greatest confidence in Mr. Spock’s inability to lie on-record, he’d want to curse it off as some wild alien influence trying to get his head out of the game. No, alright, he’d heard the vulcan improvise with the truth, so to speak, more than once.

But Spock wouldn’t lie to him. Not to the CMO. Not about a child.

“Sorry to dump all this on you.” Squeezing fists over eyes as Cindy brought actual moisture to burn under rapid blinks, the girl seemed to grow by the decade as he watched. Even now. “It’s kind of a relief to, to tell someone. An adult. We’ve been fighting alone, so long…”

“Never.” Bones’ grip didn’t startle Cindy into growing hair out her ears. Just a glance. Curious. “Never ‘pologise fer that. Cindy, you’re just – yer just a kid. How could you be fighting? A war? An honest-to-heaven war? What, by turnin’ into a dog and barkin’ some?”

“Try ripping out throats.” Reflexively wiping her hand around her neck, Cindy’s half-smile chilled his blood. Too much real humour there. Even the tiniest hint didn’t belong in that flawless face.

An explosive huff. “The six of us, we could all do it. Turn into animals, different kinds, for any situation.” Clenched fists together, one over the other. Small-like. “Hole the size of a mole? Just need to find one, and Bob’s your uncle.”

Flashing her arms out, clawed fingers, a smirk to show just the tip of a canine. “Someone in your way? Get teeth, claws, and the hunting instinct. All you need in one furry package.”

Bones must have dropped his gaze. He found himself staring at white knuckles on pale sheets. Clenching them, like he’d like to throttle ‘em.

A job to do. Comforting, yeah, and solid. For Cindy. Better help Cindy.

“The Yeerks – they can, can look like any one of us?” The bottom dropped out of his question, sudden realization a sort of awe in his voice. “How on earth did you trust us? How are you talking to me now?”

“I didn’t. I still don’t, I guess. But I’m alive. Any Yeerk would’ve… not left me alone in here.”

“Because we let you live.”

“No, letting me live would’ve been the worst part.” Cindy let herself breathe, a foot sliding out to hang over the side of her bed. “Sorry if that sounds morbid, but any Yeerk would give up a regular human body to get mine.”

“Oh, I bet,” McCoy grumbled, playing up a shaky hand ‘til it trembled between them. “I’m not quite so young as you, not quite star-conquerin’ material, is that what you’re saying?”

She laughed. It sounded lovely. “I mean, yeah. No! No, stop smiling like that,” Cindy shoved at his arm, letting McCoy slip with a genuine yelp off the covers, “I mean my morphing ability. It’s rare. They can’t infest me when I’m a wolf, or a badger, or a bird, so lying vulnerable in here is like laying out the welcome mat for being infested.”

“You make it sound like staying in here was some kind of test – for us.”

Cindy didn’t answer that one.

“Alright. Well, Cindy, thank you for coming clean. It’s helped us understand your situation a little better.” And confuse a whole lot else, but why rush? Time a-plenty for revising that report to Starfleet, and no-one’d challenge his authority to take Cindy’s case until Bones was completely satisfied.

Who knew when that would be. When hell froze over.

He didn’t make to get up. Sat there, patting her hand over his, the hold back where they’d started without him intending or noticing. A level, slow heartbeat, breathing down to 12 per minute, non-existent pain levels. Cellular rate still a little high. Normal. Good.

“…I’ve got to go look at my other patients, kid.”

Cindy nodded, looking straight ahead. The small hand tightened and let go. “Okay.”

Untangled, slow for her sake but already thinking of the real load of paperwork he’d have to sort, a quick call to the planet to inform the captain about their guests, McCoy made for the door.

“…Doctor! Wait, can I have something to write on? There’s more.” Glistening with concern, sweet heart. “More about the Yeerks you need to know.”

Didn’t hurt none. Ah. He had to calm down a little, have a glass of his own to settle down and think clearly before trying to write like a professional. Spock had enough fun mocking his normal speech.

Write on. “Sure, honey. I’ll get you a PADD to type it all out. We’ll connect ‘em up so I can see it all from my office, even if we’re apart, if you like.”

“Yeah. I’d like that.” Should have been a smile. It was too sad to be a smile. “I’d like that a lot.”

Thus McCoy spent too much more of his morning trying not to go visibly green and swearing, quietly, under his breath, while taking his own notes. Annotating them. Underlining.

Signs of Yeerk Infestation. Cautionary Report. The Case of Cindy Crawford…


	15. Chapter 15

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

This is Tobias.

Not to be too dramatic, but I'm falling out of the sky.

<AAAAAAAAAAAHHH! WHOA - whoo!>

I hollered at the depths of my own mind, legs trailing behind as the wind rushed through chinks in my carapace. Wild colours and shapes blazed past fragmented vision in the dive from the freaky alien left standing behind me.

Freaky for reasons other than being an alien. I'm kind of used to that sort of thing by now.

Dirt grabbed under my feet and I hunched, close to the ground, instinctively shrinking the profile of a jagged exoskeleton. Of the flea. My mouthparts moved despite the stillness, the strange ability of an insect to be either moving at the relative speed of a bullet train or doing a great impression of a bloodsucking statue.

But I couldn't stay there. Gathering the fibres of my flea's hind legs, I launched into the air again.

This distance didn't quite match freefall but excitement, memory, kept me going. Over bare earth. Through the open fields marked by stalks of grass. The stems were thick and round as oak trees to my little body.

A series of shorter hops, hoping the cool touch of air on antennae marked the edge of the clearing, took a little time. Not too long. Keeping an eye on the limit is something I'll never forget, ever again.

Once sure I was out of sight, definitely out of touch if the past ten minutes actually happened, the transformation back to hawk dragged on the last shreds of my patience.

And to be honest, it gave me too much time to think.

My exoskeleton rapidly melted into new, greyish-pink skin. It sprouted russet feathers, beakless mouth gasping air into tiny proto-lungs as I lay there, waiting for legs. Waiting for working muscles and the bones to stand up and stagger beneath waxy leaves. Tiny twigs scratched down my back and worked the feathers like my own beak. It felt kind of nice.

I shuddered.

Tested wings. Everything in working order, a cautious flap and launch into the air. Over bushes. Over the river, alone, curves of the land hiding the other people I'd heard in Spock's little band.

And wheeled back. Not the way I'd come, but up and over. It took some energy to climb and the burn reminded me that I'd need to hunt soon.

Hunt alien mice. Well. I'd eaten worse. Hopefully this jungle had something small and furry I could catch.

Thick foliage. Almost impossible to find open air, though a strong wind seemed to carry me along beneath the canopy. The trick was to avoid branches, trunks and vines at high and growing speed. Cupping the air, cursing, I made a hard thrust of wings against the rapidly destabilising air flow.

Tree! Angle to the right, trim my feathers to swoop around it in the split second of tobogganing through a field of cut glass.

Tree! Tree!

Branch! Black string, hanging! A noose!

Sharp pain! It caught me zooming on the incredible winds, a broad wing edge straight through. Not enough to break it. Just enough to wind it tight, to yank me straight out of the air.

<Aargh!> I yelped, thrashing.

Lit softly, wrapped tight and tighter until my down feathers puffed under the wire-thin vine. It cut through my larger flight feathers. Wrapped to the bone. Caught. Trapped!

Dangling!

Flapping despite knowing it made things worse, heart pitter-patter, a raw screech of pain went nowhere at all. The hawk wanted out. It wriggled. Screamed.

The end of my right wing, numb. Dead.

This was bad.

But, no. Willing the beat to slow, the boy coming into sharp focus, I concentrated.

Small. Big might end up with something amputated. Small. Flea again? Not my first choice, but I didn't have to go all the way to helpless bug.

I couldn’t die here.

Better than this. Flea. Concentrating dulled the pain, at least.

Head shrinking, first this time, beak split down the middle. Pop! Pop! Two antennae appeared from my now quarter-sized skull. The nubs waved at a stiff breeze.

"Cheeerrrp! Cheeeeeeeeeeerrrp!"

I froze. What was that?

Listening didn't catch any rustles. My hearing could catch a rat at fifty yards, on a good day. But as I swung like a particularly ugly piece of fruit, I saw them.

Shadows. In the brighter air, higher up, rare flecks of actual sunlight this close to the canopy. A jab of pain as the branch I dangled from bounced. Up and down, feeling sick and glaring for any sign of hungry scavengers, they came in a greyish green horde.

My first thought? Grasshoppers.

Leathery grasshoppers.

It's the legs, I think. Arched behind them like a big Mickey D's, the creatures moved in a truly bizarre lunge-step-swing through the tangle of stems.

Their bodies were somewhat conical, heads protruding from where any sensible creature's nether regions should be. As I watched, eyes half-shut against cold agony, the squadron of little beasts moved swiftly on their extensive grasping legs.

But closer up and inching towards me. Sniffing.

Beaks. They had beaks. Clicking, the one closest crept within breathing space. Touched the vine.

My wing didn't hurt. It should probably be hurting. I needed to morph.

It touched me.

I thrashed.

"TSEEEEEEEEEER!"

"Chipip!"

The bouncing nearly made me pass out.

Chittering. Swooning.

Blackness behind my eyelids churned white, blue. Opening them took a moment. Stupid. Stupid vine, stupid flight through trees, stupid alien world. Stupid!

<Stupid!>

Should've morphed something, not risked my neck trying to fly in this nest of a jungle. No normal bird was meant to battle the breezes down here. Even a sparrow might've caught a crushed breastbone.

I’m supposed to be the expert flyer, here. Total amateur move.

"Chee... Cheeeerpchip?"

Blurred. Sharp focus came almost instantly. I thanked my hawk eyes for their loyal service and blinked.

It sat right in front of me. Cheeping. Its legs dragged together, an unearthly twinge of stiff hairs making a truly hair-raising screech.

It sniffed me. Then it hunched over.

The grasshopper-bird began to eat.

I had seconds. Before the vine snapped between the razor-sharp halves of those peculiar button-round beaks, I lunged. My foot closed on a fragile neck.

The points of my talons dug under surprisingly tender skin. Its cries and the wriggle of its spine tightened my scaly toes.

I hung on. Focused. On the grasshopper-bird. On it not wanting to eat me.

Yeah, pretty grateful for that.

Better to be grateful for slipping free of the strangling vine.

My new circular beak tore it to shreds, mind still spinning as the final changes made way for a fairly quiet set of alien instincts. The original body didn't move from its branch.

Letting go of it, making a note to remember the location - hey, bird's gotta eat - made me one happy hawk.

Sometimes it scares me how I could stare down at an animal I was about to become, in the truest sense, an animal I’d killed, and not feel a thing. Sometimes it makes me glad.

Compassion doesn’t keep me alive. Not out there, on my own. Better it than me.

The 'Cheeper', newest and one of the strangest morphs in my arsenal, stretched brand-new limbs to easily clamber through the trees. Something actually suited to this planet, something that wouldn't be totally out-of-place.

The other critters backed away as I practised swinging, gripping branches with three clawed feet to swing like an orangutan to the next tree. Their cheeping fell silent.

<Okay,> I said to myself, <now to find that Spock guy and see how good his word is.>

I'd wasted enough time. The beaked Cheeper gained speed as I swung erratically over ground barely visible from canopy heights. Swinging closer to the ground, I found the river. And I found something else.

<Oh no. That's not good.>

I have a gift for understatement. Hidden behind leaves the length of a wing, there was no reason to fear for my own safety.

Lying facedown in black water, liquid so dark it looked wrong, toxic, Spock was helpless. Unconscious. Dragged away.

Swift as a one-legged monkey, I followed.

You can guess the rest. I didn’t.

And that’s on me.

Turns out, we didn't show up on this world alone. Turns out the Yeerks hadn't infested the crew of that ship just yet. In fact, I could have trusted the guy. But it's too late now. Too late to save him.

I can admit to getting out of there at top speed. I'm usually the one to stick around, watch and learn, report back to Jake so he can tell us how to win.

But I couldn't stay.

New body, new tricks, unsettled enough to let the Cheeper take control and go wherever it wanted. Into the trees. Up high.

Could have trusted him. Now Spock had a slug on the brain, and here I was, stranded. Alone. Cassie up there, surrounded by the apparently innocent, doing the thing she does where clear thinking comes after being a good person. At risk, and without backup. Not acceptable.

I had to get back up there. Or find a way to bring her back down. Hey, finding a way home sounded just as miraculous and possible. I’d settle for a ticket back to Earth.

Right now, survival comes first, and I'm damn good at living on my own terms. Always have been, even before the hawk. Being a strange mix of ultimate mouse slayer and human kid left mostly to himself made it simple. Return to the dead Cheeper.

Demorph. Eat my fill and transform back.

I travelled on the high road until the trees thinned out and a glorious sky stretched past a very familiar mountain range. The very sight of clouds, honest, perfect clouds, melted the puny micro-feathers into real hawk plumage.

Much like the night this all started with, I took to that open air without thinking.

The most natural thing in the world, spreading feathers to feel the moist air fizzle into dry blasts coming from somewhere over the trees. A faint ripple in the air marked the goal for any weary bird of prey.

Thermal updrafts have nothing comparable. Every time, no matter the situation, no matter the struggle for humanity or need to keep myself from going complete hermit-in-the-woods, this amazingly warm pillar of air lifted me up like a thousand soft looks from my incredibly awesome female friend.

Circling, tail cut to the angle of wings, I scanned the ground below.

A deep, black-bottom gulch. Cassie’s ravine. Clumps of brackish trees and bushes, not so similar to the looping trunks of the rainforest. The air felt much warmer than it had that blasting, freezing night.

Cutting away from the dusty rocks, watching the few undisturbed spots of sand to note pawprints and smooth boot marks, led me back over a set of plants. Again, too spiny and rough to belong in the damp home of Cheepers or the flabby-faced people set up with the Yeerks.

Back over a clearing I hadn't seen in the first awful moments of opening my eyes to actual lightning bolts, close enough to smell the burnt ozone.

Wind rushed over me as I pinned my wings back and dove, a controlled, swift duck to catch the air again and soar just over the trees. So good to stretch out, to do what my hawk was born to do.

A pinch to the left banked me over the clearing. Coming in to land on the sparse sticks growing from the side of a tree that looked awfully close to the pine variety, I saw it too late to adjust my trajectory.

TSEEEEEEEEEEEEEW!

Flash! _Pzshshshshshshsht!_

Bark stripped under flashing talons, my aimed perch totally wrong. It took an embarrassing struggle to bite and claw my way up to stand on the skinny branch, wings half-spread to keep balance.

Dracon beams! Distinctive, yellow, the bite of it odourless and slicing through a chunk of white metal like a hot knife through butter.

The second, I'd recognize anywhere. Green and somehow worse.

A very faint trail of white smoke curled flat in the constant sideways winds. A blocky white vehicle sat on the dirt, smoking from charred black cuts in zigzags across its sides and front. Behind it hunched someone, short black hair showing just over the new angle cut through his cover.

A red-tailed hawk can see the hairs on your nose without even trying. Black trousers dusted at the knee, drawn weapon an identical handheld box to the laser guns of spacefaring humans apparently running wild wherever I went, his forehead glistened golden-brown in the direct sunlight.

TSSEEEEEEEEEEW!

The crease in his face and wild yell turned into a gaping scream. His cooking flesh seared the inside of my beak with the acrid yellow beam.

“AAAARGHH!”

Movement just under my tree, quick, three lunging steps towards the downed craft. Held in a pale, slippery hand, the familiar shape of a dracon jerked as the weird ripple-domed head surged left and right. It stumbled, twice.

New guy. And it had it in for Mr. Red-shirt. An ally of the Yeerks if Chromedome owned a dracon beam, meaning the man slumped behind burnt white panelling hadn’t been infested yet.

I could see his fingers. Curled and twitching. Dracon beams are no joke.

Designed to kill in the slowest, worst way possible. Destroying at a cellular level, deliberately inefficient. He must be in agony.

My razor-sharp gaze turned to the translucent white head. The Controller stalked, steadied by one spread hand, the other pointed at the ship.

I opened my wings, dropped to high speeds and raked my talons forward.

Probably going to regret this later. For now I let out a triumphant scream, far too late to hide away like a scared little birdie.

Very soft. Almost thick. My talons hit and sliced straight through, a chunk of blubber on my hind left toe.

“AAAAAARGHHHH!”

Enraged, the hot sizzle of energy warmed my back as I flew in the wake of a powerful wind. It blasted me over the panels. Almost into the man’s face, flinched back, staring at me like I was a ghost.

Gravel skidded under me as I fought to tuck in my wings. Even here, the air current tugged at my feathers, demanding another rollercoaster ride straight into a cliff face where demorphing probably wouldn’t save my life.

Hawks can’t smile, but then, I’m not really a hawk at all.

Projecting every safe and urgent feeling I could, I said, <I’m here to help. Yes, the bird, sitting right in front of you. Don’t freak out.>

“You got him pretty good,” he said absently, checking over what I saw now was a cover for four large engine nacelles. Huh. This didn’t feel like a very safe place to hide.

And did he just totally ignore the fact of one very stupid bird being capable of human speech?

<…Yeah. But it won’t->

TSEEEEEEEEEEEW!

My world went white. And then black.

Fire. Worse than the vines. Worse than being eaten. In my bones! Agony! Fire!

<AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!>

White. Yellow.

Too colourful, couldn’t look away. Couldn’t feel anything. Hurt. Had to… had to stop the pain. Stagger up. Yes, on one foot, spread wide to carry dead weight of one whole wing. It felt too light. Lopsided.

Didn’t make sense. What happened?

The red-shirt guy’s back to me, flashes of green as he fired, fired again. Hope he got him. Hope it hurt. Ah, my wing! It hurt –

It wasn’t there. My left wing.

It wasn’t there. A stump. Trailing feathers, dirt mixed in barbequed blood. Just burnt away.

A bird without wings. No flying. Stuck to the ground like some useless dead weight. No.

No!

<Morph! MORPH!> I screamed at myself.

Anything. A dog. A human. Yes, human. Tobias. My hands, fingers, whole nails and longish brown hair. On my head, obviously. I didn’t have hair on my hands.

Losing it. Losing it. Focus. Please. Please, let me morph…

Mr. Red-Shirt. He took one look at me and actually yanked on the midsection of a half-human clavicle, pulling me back. Behind him. In the shadow of the craft, his own ship, firing like a madman. I could’ve kissed him, could have if my lips came out before the typical cringing human mindset did.

I grovelled in the dirt and tried not to whimper. Soon, not soon enough, my arm. It grew from the black stump.

New flesh, new cells, all the dead stuff gone until the last sign of dracon burn left was a little pile of charred dirt and a couple lost feathers.

Not soon enough.

“AAAAAA-“

Mr. Red-Shirt’s scream cut out. His head hit the metal with a loud crack as he fell, ear and cheek smoking, blackened.

Shot. Dead. No.

No, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t check. Please don’t be dead. I wasn’t done, wasn’t fully human. This weak, soft-toothed body. I couldn’t put up a fight like this!

The light scuff of dirt was my last warning.

Rising like a malevolent moon, Chromedome’s ugly, nose-less face appeared between the gap of protective engine cover panels. A light grew in those dead eyes, the flabby lips puckering in an awful sham of a smile. No, a smirk.

Complete with villainous laughter. Shoot me.

And it saw me. He saw me. Human.

Oh, Cassie. We’re in big trouble.

\--

**STARFLEET COMMAND**

  
**UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS - ENTERPRISE NCC-1701 - EIRIN**  
**ENCRYPTED COMMUNICATION**

**AUTHORISED**

END LOG.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all readers; thus begins Arc 2 of The Assignment.


	16. Chapter 16

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

It's in those moments before horrible, painful death that everything comes into focus. Something in fear, gut-shaking and inevitable, that cuts down your worries to bleached bones.

Breath fast on the heels of adrenalin, sensitive human lips damp with dew. Chest crushed, heavy. Time slowed as I waited. Despaired.

Hoped.

It all felt so real.

_Is this it?_

Three seconds. Chromedome's hand, blobby and disgustingly pale as a waterlogged carcass. It let go of the too-thin ship plates.

Glided up slow as molasses and gripped the holster with two hands.

Gave me those seconds to think. To let it all flash through my head. In that short time, to wonder.

I hoped. I worried. Even dreamed. Funny how all that can happen without wasting time.

Because thinking of home, of my family - my real family - seemed like the perfect thing to end it all on.

Not my choice of endings. How had it come to this?

A blasted black storm, driving the two of us into the arms of space-bananas in space-pajamas. Flying back to our entry point. Thinking there might be something there to bring us back home.

Not only getting involved in a fight that could've been avoided, but landing right in the middle of it.

Was I insane? Was that it?

Gunned down in cold blood by some two-bit Yeerk slave?

Infinitesimal changes in the thick blubber around the Controller's eye socket and a waiting, hollow barrel of his dracon dropped my butt to the dirt. I took in a breath.

Waited.

My last mistake. Elfangor chose the wrong kid. Let it be quick.

I'm ready.

"Vroma," Chromedome seethed. His scalp glistened beneath trails of seeping blood. Red. "I will be promoted for this."

I stared.

Is gloating genetic, or did they all take 'Villains 101' in the Galactic Domination Academy?

But the opportunity to punish him for tempting fate passed with my thin, reedy chest gasping for a few extra seconds of living. Curled and useless, prey waiting for the bite. Suddenly conscious of my breathing, I swallowed the last short wheeze and fought to hold it.

It'd be just perfect to faint from hyperventilation. Hold it. Don't show panic. Don't dare show weakness.

The Controller laughed in a peculiar gulping fashion. Puffy fish lips pursed in an 'u', long throat pulsating like water through a rubber hose.

"You will die for me, human."

Get on with it. Please, I'm suffering.

He raised the beam weapon to my head.

I forced myself to watch. I'm not going to die like a coward.

That's what probably saved my life.

Disbelief didn't stop a swan-dive for the dirt. Mr. Red-shirt came with me, heavy and non-compliant in unconsciousness. We crashed together in blood and dust.

His too-warm face bounced once on my shoulder.

A long scream past the engine protectors undulated past the point of hearing.

Hands to my ears, I flinched. A trickle of hot blood. Not important, not a point of interest in the midst of heart-pounding terror.

Shaky, palm bright red, we needed an exit. Had to get away, get room. Howls and disgusting wet impacts just around the corner raised the hairs on my arms. Back. The other side of the ship.

I dragged us both. Panting. Mind blank.

Another scream. Shouts. Not English.

No time.

Mr. Red-shirt's head lolled, neck boneless, as I yanked him under the opposite engine guard. Somehow it wasn't hard to lift his upper body in my thin arms.

The smooth face almost slipped as I propped him between the ship and a football-sized rock.

It didn't look good. Passing a glance over him told inexperienced me that much.

The burn toasted skin entirely black, missing his eye by some miracle, destroying the skin around it. Even if the eyeball was fine, it'd be agonising to move his face enough to open it.

Half-blind. I hoped that's the worst of it. Dracon beams are meant to kill. It could've gone much deeper than the skin.

I'm no doctor, but I know not to mess with head injuries.

A pause, because I had to know.

Fingers under the jut of his chin, I felt for the beat that I've only had to look for in tactical discussions with Marco.

Funny thing about us Animorphs - when it comes to a pulse, it only matters if the victim can think clearly enough to demorph.

None of that for my friend here. And checking added another level of complication to our survival.

Reddie's heart worked.

Of course I had to check. But now, the Controller distracted, I had a clear shot at getting away. I could run. I could demorph and fly.

But Reddie only had me.

Marco would be disappointed with me.

Get over it, Marco.

I hunched down and remembered how it felt to fly.

Lines of feathers came in seconds. Like a 2D print on my skin, perfect tattoos starting faint but growing stronger.

The fluffy edges rose from my hands first. Downy fingers wriggled as I willed the changes to come faster.

I'm not a quitter. But it wasn't just my life on the line.

If I died, Cassie had nothing. The Yeerks had a foothold on a new planet, on a space-faring human vessel with technology the slugs had never cannibalized before. Teleportation was horrifying enough.

Shrinking. Faster. Faster, down, down!

My legs snapped. Pop! Pop!

Reformed. Hips shrivelled inward. My chest billowed out, expanding, as if I'd taken a huge breath and swelled up like a balloon.

In the strange ways of the morphing technology, no transformation used any sort of logical process.

Flat, human teeth protruded through my lips like passing through spiderwebs. They merged into one. A rim of bone, truly creepy, thinned and yellowed. Sprouted out of my face. Curved into a deadly point.

A beak.

If I'd really seen what I thought I saw, running might be smart. Might save my life.

But not the man at my feet.

And let's not forget that the fishy alien saw me. He saw the human Tobias.

That particular tale could not be allowed to spread.

Bones hollowed, the extra stuff inside sucked out into z-space. A bizarre super-dimension the Andalites used like an old sock drawer. Any body matter I didn't need right now could be stored there, almost indefinitely.

Including marrow. Birds don't need heavy, unbreakable bones. Self-powered flight means losing any unnecessary baggage.

About the time my shoulderblades crept beneath the skin into their familiar places, it started.

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!" I screamed. Half-human vocal chords, loose skin on my gizzard stretched tight to accomodate the inhuman sound. "AAAAAAAAARRGGHHHEEEEEEEER!"

My arm! My - my wing!

Horrified, eyes wide on the burn, the morph stopped. A stump. A black stump that shouldn't exist. Shouldn't still be there.

Stinking of barbeqcue and death. The dracon beam wound came back, as if I'd never morphed.

Not fair. That's not how it works! Morphing is supposed to fix everything, every wound! That's how the rules work! And we've never broken them, with one feathered exception.

But it's never failed me before. The DNA's undamaged, so I shouldn't be. I couldn't be. This had to be a trick.

Knowing that didn't make me feel any better.

Had I been shot, again? The new wing burned off like the last one?

A quick glance, scanning on a wrinkled vulture-like neck, showed nothing. Still alone.

Not shot. Missing a wing. Agony stabbing white lights across a hazy mountainside. Not a lie. Didn't make sense.

Didn't matter.

Even if the hawk was somehow permanently damaged - a shuddered clutch of talons in the dirt - there's no reason my other morphs would be.

Human Tobias was fine. Both arms.

I had other morphs. But what? Something with teeth? Something fast?

Dangerous. Naturally deadly. Got it.

Demorphing took far too long. I grit through it.

Off-sided, balance messed up, my last wing drooped to keep me standing.

Three horns thrust out of my skull in a grinding, beak-itching crunch.

I shot up, seven feet in all. Two legs not dissimilar to the red-tailed hawk. Not usually the type for praying, but crouching to keep from making a perfect target over the top of the shuttle, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Proto-arm and melting wing stretched over Mr. Red-shirt's body, my fierce eyes peered up at the sky.

Please. It's not time for us to go. Help me to win.

That sort of thing.

Not exactly poetry, but it did calm the panting down. At least, until my second heart kicked in and demanded some heavy mouth breathing.

Swiftly enough, bladed to prune a hedgemaze by simply walking straight through it, the last change came over my eyes.

Dimmed, but serviceable.

A quick check to be sure my new friend still breathed, and I did what Hork-Bajir do best.

Powerful thigh muscles clenched and I sprang, up, over!

Over the shuttle. Forgoing a slow, easily visible lumbering around it. clawed feet outstretched!

My full weight came down hard on a white head.

It crunched satisfyingly under the heavy landing.

One quick flash of bluish grey. So close to white, my new eyes had trouble picking it up.

I slashed blindly.

The blades cut through air in a harmless downward whistle.

Shrill squeaks startled me into a step back, thick tail catching on messy Controller paté. Unbalanced, I readied myself for a lunge.

Paused. Thoughts raced across my mind, jumbled, still wrought from the earlier havoc.

A pair of orb-like black eyes blinked at me. Unchanged.

Not attacking.

Afraid? Waiting, maybe. Another one of those pale two-legged things. Potentially infested.

Could I take that risk? A potential?

Pale and flubbery, lines of dark blue and pink in waving ripples across a bald scalp. The movement caught the eye, almost mesmerising. Like a lava-lamp.

The alien backed away, arms up in a useless attempt to protect itself.

Unarmed. The dracon beam. Where was it?

It was easy to take one monstrous step and get right in its face. A fierce snatch caught the interlocked arms in one huge hand. Not currently bothering to be careful, I squeezed hard and shook. Its whole body moved up off the ground in my grip.

"WHO YOU?"

Snarled through a jagged beak, the barbed tongue turned normal speech into a syllable slurry. In this case, it made no difference. The alien didn’t respond. Uncomprehending.

Cool puffs of air on my muscular forearms dried blood in crusty lines. The black eyes stared somewhere to my right, under my armpit. Avoiding looking up at what I knew to be a terrifying sight.

I've gone claw-to-blade with more than enough Hork-Bajir myself.

But intimidation didn't seem to be helping me now.

"WHO. ARE. YOU."

It let out a stream of sounds. Clicking from somewhere in its chest, the lavender pufferfish mouth said everything but intelligible words.

Ah. Not English. I should have expected that.

Switching to my in-built universal translator, I sent the deadly intent of an Animorph out of options through direct thought-speech.

<Who are you? What are you? Why did you ->

Slipped. A limb slid out of my grip.

Fumbling, doing my best not to actually dismember the slimy alien, it closed a thick-fingered hand on my wrist and locked our gazes together. A clear layer of natural gel or oil moved the arm disconcertingly beneath my palm.

Serpentine neck bent to keep contact, rancid breath on its face did nothing to frighten it back. Faint strength, nothing compared to the Hork-Bajir, pressed through leathery green skin. Two out of four fingers splayed just around the base of a wrist-blade.

Click. Click.

Softer, louder and deliberate. Repeated twice. The skin of its throat rose and fell in an obvious gulp.

It didn't fight my control, and actually gently patted me with its free hand. I could see my reflection in those clear eyes.

Gentle. Non-threatening.

Inconclusive.

"Aaauuuughhhh..." someone quietly moaned.

We flinched.

My talons dug pinpricks in the skin of its arm. It cast its eyes back and forth, looking far back as it could with one arm trapped. The light cuts didn't seem to concern it.

Then my own mind spun into gear, and I peered across the slopes too. My flexible neck allowed for looking all the way behind and around without having to move an inch. Not one person in sight, friendly or hostile.

What else could... oh. Mr. Red-shirt.

Of course he had to wake up right now. I felt immediately bad for thinking that way.

He needed medical attention I wasn't certified to give. Standard-issue morphing didn't make manifestations of band-aids or, even more useful, high-end pain relievers possible. My Hork-Bajir didn't have a stitch of clothing, let alone an emergency medkit.

Thinking about how Reddie must feel, crispy from dracon fire, banked immediately into something more useful.

If I could give him a hand, somehow, that might smooth things over for Cassie and I. The advanced humans might be just as capable of gratitude as the ones from back home.

At least until the Yeerks had full control over the spaceship and we were plumb out of luck.

But never say I'm a pessimist.

And right here? I had a living key. Uninfested or not, it was more useful to me breathing than dead.

It might not understand English, but thought-speech broke down universal barriers. And I had an armful of reasons to keep it from betraying me.

Keep your cool, Tobias.


	17. Chapter 17

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

<Walk.>

We did.

One slippery arm, closer to a fin now that the blood stopped pounding behind my earholes to let me see it clearly, clamped tight in between us. I refused to let go.

Not until we rounded the shuttle and it saw where we were going.

With a slick movement that I probably should have expected by now, it slipped between my claws. I grabbed for the air. Missed. Growled in the heavy saw-like breath of an adult Hork-Bajir as I stumped up behind the floundering alien.

It crouched by Reddie. A tingle on the back of my neck had me by his side, too.

He blinked up at us, scattering specks of black matter to the filthy red of his uniform. Bits of him.

If it hurt, he didn’t say so. Instead, Mr. Red-shirt stared. At me. At the blades on my wrists, the beak and red eyes. His good eye misted over and the man lay back to wince at the sky.

The alien’s eyes roved over him. Not being versed in its rather camel-shaped face, I couldn’t tell if that was concern or intense interest focusing it on Reddie’s burn. I stopped a try at touching the marred skin by jerking my head down in front of it.

Hork-Bajir can scowl pretty well. It comes naturally, something it and my natural form had in common.

“Ugh,” coughed the prone man. “What…?”

Tiny glimmers of blood, raw muscle in cracks of mummified skin. My palm, talons relaxed so as not to catch on uniform material or skin, set him steady.

Glimmering black eyes turned to me. The alien’s bottom lip puffed out. It looked bizarrely like a pout.

<Sir,> I started, careful to raise fingertips and claws above Reddie’s unsettled shifting, <I’m a friend. From before. Are you okay? I mean,> dumb question, <can you move?>

Smacking his lips, Reddie’s tongue peeked pale and dry in a wheeze. His eyes bulged.

<Okay, okay. You don’t need to talk.>

Would’ve been helpful, though.

Click. Clickclick.

A shrill tone nearly jumpstarted my knee joint into the dirt. I skimmed a small clump of earth from the blade tip and gave the alien a sour look. Still making the sound, but quieter, it leaned in and made more strange noises.

Mr. Red-shirt’s face cleared after a few moments. He nodded.

…Wait.

<Can you… understand it?> I may have sounded disbelieving.

Curved into a sharp angle of disgust, Reddie’s eyebrow arched at me.

At me. Not at the alien.

…Oh. <Sorry. I can’t go back to being a bird, for now.>

But he shook his head at me. Drew a hand to his throat, winced. Mouthed something.

If you’d believe it, I tend to have a lot of spare time on my hands – on my wings. Flying, soaring through the clouds or avoiding them because damp feathers aren’t fun for anyone involved, even scouting out places for the Animorphs. That takes up a little of it.

When the sun seems to drag across the sky and everyone I know is busy or doesn’t need me bursting into their lives, I’ve developed some hobbies to keep from going nuts from boredom.

Reading over people’s shoulders. Counting the number of bodies coming and going from shopping centres, homes, schools. People-watching.

Reading lips.

Hawks don’t hear quite that well from the heights we take, and I’ve had to get creative with spying or listening in on private conversations.

No-one can hide from the bird-man.

It’s not easy to follow long sentences, but one word, repeated? No problem.

<Water. I’ll get some.>

And hopefully not poison one of my tickets out of here in the process. I squashed the familiar stirrings of regret, of worry, and stood. Then I looked at the squat, wrinkled alien.

Its skin seemed to push out into puffy divots and creases. It reminded me of a baby shar-pei.

Not nearly so innocent.

I hesitated. Rims around Reddie’s eyes showed startling white, resting first on me, and then on my second meal ticket.

Lips pursed, he waved. Waved again, harder. He wanted me to go.

Could I trust either of them, alone, here?

Well. Either taking the alien with me, leaving Reddie alone, or letting it stay with him without a minder, didn’t seem like good choices.

Were they all I had?

<Is there water nearby? Clean water?> I asked. My beak tip pointed directly at Mr. Red-shirt’s chest.

A slow nod. Using the hand opposite to his injury, the spaceman pointed. At the shuttle.

Of course, they must have brought emergency supplies. Much closer than a river. Purified.

I eyed the lesser-patterned material, stroking it with the back of a claw. It remained cold despite the sun directly over our heads.

<If it tries anything, make some noise,> I ordered, peering for the handle to open it up. <I’ll be there.>

I didn’t go on to say that I might not get there in time. But I had to give the flubbery creature some credit; it helped fight off an infested member of its own race. It knew a friendly face didn’t mean instant trust. In that position, any one of us would do the same.

A cold glare and I stumped around the craft to find a door.

Despite the battle churning up mud, blood and guts just outside, the shuttle’s doors opened at a simple approach. No panel or code-breaking needed. Which was fine by me, if a little naïve by my standards.

A single step up, ignoring helpful human-sized stairs, found me in a rather cozy compartment just behind the cockpit.

Cool air flush on leathery skin, neck bent to fit the enormous frame of my weaponised morph inside the little ship, I hunched further inside. Chairs on revolving bases pointed just off forwards, as if left at odd angles by the swiftly departing crew. Panels, buttons, some raised to switch or flick while others glowed softly beneath glass.

Touch-screens, maybe. Pretty high-tech. I’m pretty sure I’ve only seen that in the one sci-fi movie I’d ever been dragged to, by the most persistent and flat-out annoying friend to ever need a wing-man, pun intended, despite knowing I couldn’t stay longer than two hours to watch some explosions and dramatic kissing against said explosions.

Though that was probably why he chose me. A great excuse to get some girl alone, right?

I still like to reminisce about the horror on Marco’s face beneath a shower of upturned popcorn, the carton sticking up from his hair.

Don’t ask him about it. He’d deny it.

Scanning the walls, I remembered the look on Reddie’s face. Shock. Disgust. Concern.

Very little pain.

Hooked claws into overhead bins loosened their covers, light and thin in my hands. Bits of machinery blinked back at me. I peered in the half-light. Nothing looked edible, and to be honest, who puts food in a place they have to stretch up to?

The longer I fumbled in the strange twilight of manned human space travel, the louder my jagged beak grated in a close imitation of grinding teeth. Reddie wasn’t safe out there. Better in here, to be honest.

Better than having some fat alien watching over him when he couldn’t defend himself.

In the end I dragged a satchel I’d found in the back to Reddie and his new best buddy. A canteen sloshed inside among blocks of metal and dials, nothing I recognized.

The bag dropped in the dirt so the wounded crewman could dig through it. Finding the water actually curved those coarse lips into a smile.

The alien chirruped as if happy to see it, too.

<There’s more,> I said briefly and handed the little laser box over.

Mr. Red-shirt almost snatched it up, thumb swept up to rest on the activator button. His hands curved around it as if holding something precious.

I eyed it.

He didn’t point it at me.

<You.> A sharp glare against the dull greys and browns of the bare hillside was about all I could muster. The alien quivered. <He understands you. Tell him your name.>

It burbled. Reddie squinted against the sun, covering his eyes.

Cracked and painful, whispered so that I leaned in – carefully – to spare his throat.

“Moorguenn. She says. Hello.”

I managed a tight nod. <Hello.>

Not one thing about it reminded me of any female I’d ever seen. But then, squat and flippered, nothing on Earth quite resembled her, either.

Moorguenn. That’s something.

“Ah… Asuf.” Reddie’s face flickered. That’s the warning we had before he started coughing and didn’t stop. He didn’t let us touch him. Fist to his mouth, the spaceman fought to control himself. A jab at his own shoulder brought up a gasp. “Asuf!”

<Don’t try to talk if you’re going to choke on it. Asuf, we get it. Nice to meet you.> Oh. Right. <And call me, uh. Teddy. As in… Theodore.>

The alien hummed something and patted Asuf’s shoulder.

“She needs. Help.”

Moorguenn motioned two fluid circles around her snout. Palms turned inward, she posed for three blinks of those bulbous eyes and actually snorted a sound with at least three consonants.

“Um,” Asuf wiped his forehead, “her people, they’re in. A bad way. Hurt. I think.”

<Not to be rude,> I said patiently, digging claws deep into the earth, <but we have bigger problems. There’s Yeerks among the – the Moorguenns here, and we’re all in deep trouble.>

Reddie mouthed ‘yeerk’, his bestest buddy imitating it with her gigantic lips.

<It’s a long story.> And I do not have the time to repeat it. Again. <You can’t trust anyone, Asuf. Moorguenn. Yeerks can look like anyone, act just like them, and you wouldn’t know the difference.>

Her unwavering gaze seemed filled with stars. A deep, mournful blew note through her nose. I felt a chill up my spine.

“Yeah.” Asuf coughed. “That’s. Her problem.”

<A Yeerk problem. So, you already know?>

The lady alien spoke in her mix of blubbering, dial tone singing and rapid finger movements for some time. Asuf watched, and as she slowed, began to speak against the growing raw edge to his voice.

“Moorguenn is from. The deepest trenches, where most. Live. Her people. The Eirin.” A tired gesture to the crouching female. “But she had to come. Had to… brave the sun? It hurts them. Like deep ocean pressure. Hurts us. Me,” Asuf added, a beseeching tone and unnecessary tap of finger to thumb. “Why…?”

Moorguenn’s clicks seemed impatient, even to me. The undulating veins on her face, or whatever they were, wiggled like a rising heartbeat.

“Oh.” The man took a deep draught of water. It trickled from the corners of his mouth, dribbling into the blackened cracks to one side. He winced. “Her husband. No. Husband-to-be. Much. Loved.

“He’s one of the brave. He came up to… to meet us. One of the First. No,” Asuf waved at my apparently obvious disinterest, “not important. Now. But she wants to… save him. He’s been lost. He’s…”

Coughing ruined the story, and one slap on his back set it off the harder. I withdrew my hand, avoiding his streaming eyes.

<It’s okay. I think I can guess; her fiancé became a Controller. An alien – Eirin – enslaved by a Yeerk,> I stumbled over the new word, my thoughts too close together for the awkward handling to be missed. <And, what. You want to save him?>

No eyebrows, no soft, expressive human face, and yet the hopeful shaping of her eyes and little sticky-outie ears brought a chuff from my chest. A scoff.

<The first thing you need to know, is not to hope.> And I hoped she got hit hard by that. <The sooner you start from wishful thinking, the sooner you get dead.>

Half-turned, I jerked my head to peer around us again.

I told myself that I had to keep an eye out for Controllers. They didn’t usually hunt alone, and if the dead one had backup, we were pretty much sitting ducks out here.

Just on the edge of dull Hork-Bajir hearing, Moorguenn hummed. High-pitched, soft, it carried on past breathing. She didn’t stop or pause.

I had to cut in. The sorrow, the memory borne on that sound could not continue.

<The second thing is, you’ve made a good decision. In asking for help.> Loathe as I was to admit it.

A cock of the head, curious. Asuf rested his eyes, barely tilting his head towards whoever spoke next.

<You can’t do this alone. And I know how to fight them. I’ve been fighting Yeerks for… a long time,> I managed.

All this emotion. The hawk had no problems avoiding difficult conversation, painful memories. The Hork-Bajir, simple though its mind may be, had the awareness and intelligence to echo my own thinking. It knew misery. It felt another’s pain.

It was, in a way, human.

And I didn’t know how to handle that. There’s a lot of things I… I don’t handle well. On my own. Even in a group. Cassie’s the better one for feelings. For honesty. I wished she was here, and not me. She’d make best friends with the Eirin girl. Probably do makeovers or talk shop on saving the rainforest.

My goals didn’t include getting involved in some kind of alien vendetta.

Unfortunately, past experience taught me the folly of pretending I didn’t care.

I had to make a decision.

After all, it’s just one Eirin. Right?

We could swoop in, snatch him up and spirit the host body away. Maybe to the mountains. I knew the dryness of the air above the forest canopy, the changeable winds and sheer barrenness of those cliffs. Very few living things made their home up there.

Eirine had the soft, slimy skin of water-based creatures, like frogs or eels. The infested Eirin might dry up and drop dead before finding us up there. The key, of course, would be keeping the host body alive for three days.

Until the Yeerk finally shrivelled up and blew to the seven winds.

Think positive. Don’t think about my own advice.

I looked to Moorguenn, thought-speech open to make the deal and buy myself less time to think.

Gurgle.

Wet gasps.

It startled all three of us. I almost demorphed on the spot.

Moorguenn’s strangely symmetrical hands split to grasp Asuf’s shoulder. Another went to her throat. A twitch that I restrained kept the restraining flipper intact. Panicked, Reddie looked to her. To me.

But there’s nothing I could do. Asuf. His lips wet, blood leaking along minute-old tracts of water. Choking.

<No,> I whispered.

Huge, hulking and deadly, my morph had nothing to offer a dying man. I couldn’t soothe the burns. Couldn’t clear his throat.

Two hearts thumping a wild beat so loudly I barely caught Moorguenn’s squeaks, she had to shove at my chest, draw my attention. To her other hand. To the light.

Her palm. It glowed.

Seriously.

<What kind of Disney princess sh->


	18. Chapter 18

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

<-owbusiness is this?!> I said, indignant.

The morphing tech acting out-of-bounds. A new friend, dying, bleeding on the dirt and staining my talons. Some mysterious woman lighting up like a fairy tale princess, potentially about to burst into song and draw in every hungry Taxxon within two miles.

Guerilla tactics. You want a hint? Don’t start shining lights around and drawing attention to yourself!

Never mind that it’s high noon and we’re hiding behind a brilliant white spaceship. It’s about priorities. And sensibilities. No Animorph morphed to look pretty and _glow_ when a man’s life was on the line!

<Could you – not?> I managed.

She hissed at me. Hissed. Like a snake. Or a crocodile.

Her flippers dug under Asuf. Heedless of the way his chest heaved, gagging, Moorguenn scooped him up and staggered to her feet.

Fins.

My blades itched, toeing behind the heavyset duo. The alien’s eyes focused straight ahead of her. Only the way her slitted nostrils puffed out with each breath showed the strain.

Brusquely, I shoved her aside. Gathered Reddie in my far more powerful arms. <Show me the way,> I commanded, barely slowed to stalk after a waddling Eirin.

We went for the rainforest. In the softer earth, my clawed feet sunk deeper and deeper until each step started with a squelch. The light drained from the air and Asuf’s face. Hearts beating faster, a wordless bark jolted my arms as I yanked tail spikes from a submerged root.

Moorguenn’s throat and palm still glowed. Looking too closely cast bluish spots across my already difficult night vision.

<Where are we going?> I grunted. Raising Reddie over a slick waist-heigh branch, I curved beneath snaked branches to stomp after her.

Moorguenn paused. The conical ears raised and swivelled like tiny satellite dishes.

Asuf wriggled. Despite the iron grip, he almost forced his way into falling head-first. I hefted him up, using my hip and pointing the blades on my elbows anywhere else. Hanging from his waist, Reddie dangled boneless arms, mouth gaped wide.

Bluuurgh. He retched.

A bit of reddish-black something slurped out to splat by my foot.

The tension that seemed to be holding his body together relaxed. My fingers had fewer hard angles to grip. Asuf sagged.

Moorguenn’s acute black eyes sparkled. Tangles of roots hooked before her like bars to a cage. She beckoned and slipped away.

More aware than ever of the time limit hanging over our heads, I simply bashed my way through the roots. None came close to scratching my green skin.

Tap. Tap tap. My arm. I glanced down to see relief in Asuf’s bearded face. Worry, straying to the horns on my head. Alacrity. His lips moved.

Already stressed enough for the both of us, I almost cut the wobbling mouth open. A clawed finger shut it in the universal ‘shut up’ press down. <If you start choking again, I’m leaving you here,> I snarled. The strain of carrying a grown man didn’t even touch my reserves.

It’s the situation. It’s everything. I swallowed a pulse of warmth at the squeeze of his chest moving again as it should and ignored the slight smile on Reddie’s face.

Not going to lose another one.

Mud meant falling from the trees. Striding meant the rare times a Hork-Bajir took to the edges of Father Deep. Left the embrace of Mother Sky.

Their blades were never designed for cutting flesh. The idea seemed to perplex the comparatively small brain. What it understood, what Jara Hamee, the Hork-Bajir to willingly give me his strength and body knew best, came much closer to gardening.

Where to cut the vine. Where to strip the bark. How to destroy the greenery in my way without killing plant or beast. Plenty of wide-eyed things fled at the slice-slice-stomp of my hurried journey.

Mud came up to my knees when I lost sight of the pallid alien leading us to safety.

Asuf lay still in my arms. I gave him no mind, peering through the shadows. Looking for that glow. Disney princess Moorguenn should give herself away the better for this irritating gloom. Should.

Didn’t.

<Moorguenn?> I called.

Distant insects. Cheepers, distinctive and annoying. Deeper whoops from above, where a Hork-Bajir might feel more comfortable. No Eirin.

Where did she go?

Arms beginning to feel a little strain, I hefted Asuf up again. He didn’t react. Didn’t move at all.

Didn’t breathe.

<Asuf?> Bated breath, dawning horror. I clenched my clawed toes to grip the earth. <Asuf, can you hear me? ASUF!>

Nothing.

<MOORGUENN!>

Why did I follow her out here? Why did I even start to trust some alien with a man’s life?

Wild, jerking in the way as natural to me as five-fingered hands, the hollows of empty rainforest seemed to mock me. Mock Asuf. Enjoy the tiny cut on his cheek when I forgot the sharp points on my wrists.

<Moorguenn! Help!> I broadcasted, not caring one whit for eavesdroppers.

A sound like wet rope slapping water. My tail skidded on the squashy surface, anchoring a swivel to glare protectively over my burden.

Grey. Misted greys, browns, purples and white. Black dots moved over the dull backdrop, stopping and starting in ways that made me dizzy to watch.

Some disappeared and reappeared. Appearing. Blinking. I blinked. The forest twinkled.

I hugged Asuf to myself, suddenly aware beyond the reasonable senses of my morphed body. As if hearing the breathing of twenty people at my back, skin prickled all the way down my spine, flicking the tail end from side to side. It twitched as my breath deepened.

They came forward slowly.

Cautiously.

Eirine. I could see them just fine, rounded outlines appearing as if out of nowhere. As if they’d been there all this time. At least – I counted quickly, mindset kicking in as if I’d never left that midnight battlefield – ten. Ten against one of me, laid down by an unconscious friend.

Each waded to my left and right. Not moving for weapons. Not coming within three metres.

Just watching.

I took a deep breath and stepped forward.

Light bumps on my chest heightened the sense of priceless seconds ticking by, his shoes bouncing from the swooping stride. Searching for the right words, I scanned the crowd. Eirin to Eirin.

A few stood shorter than the rest, two dressed in tight hide and loose cloth. No Moorguenn.

Bigger than the rest by a foot, the sleekest Eirin slapped its foot in the mud. Miniscule claws between swathes of webbed skin carried it over sinking earth. Towards us.

Asuf shifted just a little. I loosened my grip, a breath misting the hard keratin of my beak.

Time to make some friends.

Come on, Tobias, you’ve done this before.

With childish and gullible Hork-Bajir on the run for their lives. In a much less intimidating morph, part of a known rebel resistance group no less. But, hey. You’ve done this before.

“Ghhghhuuuurrrrrrrrpph plbp plbt,” the Eirin said.

Oh.

I glanced down. No, Reddie couldn’t translate.

We didn’t have time for this.

Cranked down hard on the sense of slobbering, gross heart in my mouth, a firmer plant of talons kept me from slipping. Glancing up from unstable silt, I must have been a sight. Crimson red glaring over a dead body.

Not dead. He’s not dead.

<Help us.>

Manoeuvring heavy bulk with the grace of a living swiss army knife, I sank to a knee. And sank some more. Down to my waist in three seconds. The blades on my knee could have caused that.

Head bent, arms pushed out, I offered Asuf. Pleaded.

<Please. He’s dying.>

It reared back. Nostril slits flaring, it scratched over its face and made more noises. Less raspberries, more clicking, nothing I understood.

Just before the bubbling in my gut had me do something rash, light flared by my left shoulder.

Soft, bluish, and a sense of frenzied energy in the blur of fins around its head. Yes, her arm!

Red scores of blood where she’d been cut, five splayed talons on fragile skin. I cracked a swift smile.

<Moorguenn! Please,> I said, <I can’t help you if you don’t help me first.>

She gazed at me solemnly. Moorguenn nodded.

Calls from the other Eirin barely paused her flurry. Plush aliens scattered.

In a swift and bizarre whirl totally opposite to my impression of a soft and weak body, Moorguenn flipped onto her back, rolled around to a round belly and skidded through a knot in the roots.

Asuf landed perfectly on her back. She’d yanked him from me. I let him go.

I lunged after them. Or tried to.

It turns out having a very dense body in what is essentially quicksand leads to rapid sinking.

Mud lapped on thick skin, just below my chest. Knees long gone, hunched in a way that just wouldn’t straighten, a yip startled the big slippery fellow still watching me.

Extricating myself took precious seconds. Slicing the mud with my arms released some of the pressure on my legs.

Shortly, but not fast enough to follow the Eirin beginning to trail away, I dug myself out.

Gasped and erupted from the silt. Shook what I could away, scrambled to a new spot with my tail the last to slide from a Hork-Bajir sized hole.

<Wait! Hey!> I called after her.

Waving my arms, flushed along my neck and back, a stagger morphed into a jog after Moorguenn’s trail. Fresh water slapped my feet in the shallow trench.

She didn’t wait. I kept up, somehow. Mostly.

At times I dove through watery pitfalls. Roots grew natural walls too low to crawl under. I kept my head up, mostly dry, and grimly hung on despite a hammering of a wet-behind-the-ears bark-eater set of instincts.

The swing of my pace slowed. I grit jaw muscles and closed my beak against filthy water spray.

Keep going. No time to rest. Come on, Tobias.

Past an open hollow. Uninteresting no matter the colours or probable hundreds of living organisms in the water, eating the leaves. All but to breathe. I snatched the moment to lurch over, fighting the urge to throw up. I fought harder for some air.

Ankles burning on the end of cement-like calves, I reluctantly stepped up and out of another mudhole. Again.

<Why would anyone live here?> I wondered out loud.

The trail led down. A small slope. I stepped down it, unable to go gingerly with my tyrannosaurus feet. A twist of my core went to a near miss of pink algae.

That shade wouldn’t go with forest green, splattered down my neck or not.

The drooping pink strands surrounded Moorguenn’s drag marks. A pink tunnel. Lovely. Every tree hung thick with the stuff. Some, on the edges of my quarry’s run, bled white.

The broken ends of torn algae brushed my shoulders despite the terrific hunchback of an unhappy monster.

I scratched with an awful retching sound of talons on hard skin and chopped one last wing-length of algae to flop at my feet. My hearts skipped a beat. A clearing. She’d led us to a clearing.

Open air. It flowed down my gullet in easy gulps.

Impenetrable jungle walls surrounded a pool. A black pool.

Its surface shone thick and sloppy, grainy to the eye. It looked like the very last thing a heavyweight seven-foot alien would want to step into.

Hardened earth gave my dull claws purchase to cling and stand correctly. I straightened and sighed. Something in my back clicked. A burst of sharp warmth flowed all the way down, tingling the back of my skull pleasantly.

Hork-Bajir don’t do narrow places. Did I mention how annoying this jungle was?

Blurple.

I whirled.

Nothing. No Eirin. Just me, sweating and alone. I gave the dim tunnel of love a short, unfriendly gesture.

I readied my blades. Listened.

Blub. Bluup.

Turned around. Stared at wobbly bubbles coming from the water. If it _was_ water.

<You’re disgusting,> I told the pool. <And I’m already going nuts, talking to myself. Not that I wasn’t before or anything.>

And now crazy hermit Tobias needs to fall headfirst into a tar pit of death. What’s the best way to describe this plan? I can think of a good one.

Insane.

Stupid. This is stupid.

Thoughts fired back. What else is there? Am I going to turn into a useless bird, in the middle of a jungle? Get eaten by some monster cat or simply pass out from the pain of dracon burn?

But yeah. Pretty stupid.

Best to do it fast.

How long can Hork-Bajir hold their breath? Demorphing was… out of the question.

I had time.

I wouldn’t want to breathe that stuff with anything better suited to water. Just the thought of black tar seeping into my gills, coating my insides until it ruptured and burst out of my eyes…

I shuddered. Morphing breaks a lot of hold-ups to the imagination. It made imagining that exact scenario way too easy.

<Moorguenn,> I called out. My toes touched water. I skirted the edge, arms spread to keep balance, my tail splayed back for some grip.

Dead leaves split and slid under my foot.

<I’m coming doOOOO-WWWWN!>

I fell. Sank like a stone.

A flash of yellow-golden light and short gasp for breath. Eyes shut, pitch water flushed past my face. Immediately irritated the tender flesh round my eyes.

The pull of need at my throat made me writhe. It released the crossed arms over my chest, reached out for the walls of the pool. It could be like a well. Carved out, maybe. My claws touched nothing.

Rising panic met tired Tobias and awful situation like hot winds to the wet season.

It whirled me up inside just as the water, the thick gunk, yanked. Down. Around! Twisting! Arms trailing above me, tail sucked down!

Down!

<Aaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!> I yelled. Swallowed a beakful of black juice. It tasted fine, actually.

A tornado! A whirlpool, chaotic, turning over and over and in a roar that beat my head on what must be the pool floor, dragged me hard. Sideways down a vertical tunnel. It felt like being sucked down a vacuum cleaner.

Fast! Couldn’t open my eyes. Just the sensation, pulling at my limbs, no control!

Powerless!

And left! Around a bend, cracking a spike on my ankle, losing precious air bubbles to yell. Instinctive. Fists pounding the walls around me, mind screaming to tell me what to do.

What? What do I do? Calling to that dark, primitive mind, I screamed back.

<What do I do?!>

Relax.

_What?_

Let it go. Let it take you along. Stop panicking and calm down.

It wanted to calm down. My Hork-Bajir didn’t like a panicking bird-boy. I could have thrown my hands up in the air, but to be honest, there wasn’t room and my entire body ached.

So I did it. I relaxed.

Forced my mind to stop racing. Loosened the tension in my hooked neck. Let the pain of my cracked ankle blade flow all the way up my leg, accepted it.

As I did, the ache lessened. I slipped through the water like an arrow. Faster. Fewer bumps.

My heart rate slowed.

I realized. My heart. Hearts. They controlled the blood flow. If they slowed down enough, relaxed enough, my muscles wouldn’t need oxygen as quickly. I could last for longer on my stolen lungful of air.

The Hork-Bajir wasn’t truly aware, not like a real Hork-Bajir. But it knew what to do if it found itself at the deep end without floaties on.

Somehow, far from home and totally alone, that hit me. Cassie might not be here. The others could be a whole galaxy away. But in a way… I’d never be alone. Not with all of my morphs. Even the hawk hadn’t left me.

Gosh, that’s sentimental.

But true.

I smiled a terrifying, beak-wrinkly sort of smile.

…I hope the water ends soon. I’m running out of-

_PWOOOOSHHH._

\--

**USS ENTERPRISE NCC-1701**

  
**DATABASE ACCESS: QUERY " _SAPIENT LIFEFORM - 'EIRIN'_ "**

**AUTHORISED**

__


	19. Chapter 19

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

The water thrust a flailing Tobias up and over smooth river stones.

It pounded my back, spine bent against the pressure as I gagged. Air. Black streams dripped between my eyes, dripping from the horns to run over mottled green forearms.

Arching up against the flow, squinting through burning eyes, I took several hurried breaths and willed my hearts to slow.

It gets easier the second time. Eager, my pulse skyrocketed, calming slowly as my elbows pushed out to find purchase. To prop up my chest.

I spat out the last of the pit water. Where was I?

The ceiling curved wide, a squashed bowl just high enough to walk across if I ducked. In human morph, I might feel my hair brushing the rough stones in places.

As Hork-Bajir, I had to keep from flinching. No sky. Only earth. To the ends of the cavern, still with shadow, no darker holes or obvious exits. Not even a door.

I could be trapped. But there must be a way out. Why would Moorguenn lead me to a room neither of us could leave?

Okay, I can think of one reason. I groaned and wrenched a shoulder socket, stretched to the right. To grip a jagged rock, barely visible in its sharp angles against my mound of river stones.

My entire body raised muscle in the effort to slowly, painfully, pull myself out of the water.

I collapsed to the floor. Dull aches set so deep they may well have bruised my soul. Yes, this is what it took to spend this morph's strength. It explained the ferocity of a battle with one.

Excited shrills vibrated the skin over my ear receptacles. Peeling my eyes open, one at a time, set fresh fire to them. I lifted my head.

Another alien. I let my head flop. Sighed. Raised it again, nodded respectfully as I could.

<Hello.>

Not the one I'd known for about thirty minutes, forty-five, but just as eager. It seemed a racial attribute.

Or Moorguenn could be contagious.

Its flubbery lips spread in a very human smile. Razor needle teeth glinted hollow, translucent. Jagged and thin as needles. It said something. The movement of a thick tongue didn't match the sounds of it talking.

Sitting up let me rub grains of dirt from my face. Resting hands in my lap, legs carefully propped in front of me, I stopped the flow by simply interrupting.

<Stop. Sorry, I can't understand you.>

It did. The smooth head tilted to the side, eyelids at half-mast.

<I'm->

I stopped. Ran the last few minutes through my head. Glanced at my ankle, wondered at the nothingness, the lack of aching pain. Touching it did nothing. My claws slipped over the broken blade, nerve exposed like a broken tooth.

How was that possible? It hurt all the way here - but nothing. It should be agonising.

A hard look at the water, the paved river stones an unnatural road bump to speedster travellers, set the Eirin to fidgeting. I glanced back at her. It. Them.

Their hands could sure move fast.

<Sorry. I'm a friend.> Acting on impulse, I reached out and patted her hands. They stilled under mine. <Moorguenn brought me here. Yes,> I added at its quiet trill, hoping that meant it knew that particular name, <I'm here to help. A friend.>

Hopefully not your only friend. I craned my neck.

A lump on the far side of the cave. Suddenly pain-free, a scramble to my feet moved the curious alien back several steps. Its feet left shining marks on the ground.

<Just going over there.> I pointed, already walking. The quiet passing was marked only by the squelch of mud beneath my feet.

I'd taken a few steps when louder, repeated slaps of flippers on stone followed my own.

Moorguenn’s bulk curled into a fleshy ball. Her black eyes met mine in a fluid swivel of neck, the cuts on her arm now clean and free of blood through her black water. Dints in that distinctive five-star pattern still marked her as the Eirin I knew.

I knelt beside her. Asuf's legs stretched out before me.

<How is he? Is he alive?> A pause. <Moorguenn?>

No response. I wouldn't have understood her anyway, but the silence bothered me. I had to see. Over her shoulder, I blinked, momentarily stunned.

Asuf lay bare to the waist. Not a Reddie any longer, shirt discarded. The rags lay as if thrown against the wall.

His burn went further down than I thought. From a few inches above his ear, down across his face, neck and collarbone. It sliced down in an angry black scar, the skin parted to show red, fresh blood. Sluggish to move.

But the blood moved. His blood was still moving.

<He's alive?> Painful hope stained my thought-speech. It transferred more than I’d wanted. Images of friends, of countless won battles.

Marked more by what we chose to forget.

Moorguenn didn't look at me, intent on her four fingers over Asuf's neck, his face. But her snout did dip. And again. She nodded 'yes'.

Yes. I sat back. Sat forward again, arms tight 'til the tendons strained.

<Is he going to stay that way?>

Now the Eirin gave me a look. Nudged my chest. Looked me up and down and jerked her head to point my attention away. To the other Eirin, the nameless alien waiting and fidgeting right behind me.

My neck prickled.

Moorguenn turned her back.

<But->

Cool, almost surprising, the second one’s hand laid on my shoulder. Icy skin leeched fever from it. The alien's face somehow arranged itself into simple concern.

I may be reading into things, but sympathy came across most species in a similar way. Softer around the eyes. A downturn at the lips. Open and willing to take whatever pain came its way.

Knowing a few aliens, one a close friend, let me see it quickly. It wanted to help.

<Okay. Okay, that makes sense.>

Can't keep running forever. And Moorguenn - blurred in drops of aggravated tears - knew what she was doing. I hoped. More than I did. And Asuf was still alive.

Now, I sighed and let my tail droop on the floor, it was my turn. My face felt numb.

Could be the black water. Could be magical Eirin juice. Disney princess aliens... I shuffled after the second one, directed in gentle grips on my arms and even my head to curl up against the cave wall. To rest.

I let it pull a rough string blanket over my ankles and stopped it, my hand huge on its narrow wrist.

<Wait,> I gravelled, trying to see the Eirin clearly. <I can't sleep yet. Have to... I have to do something first.>

It tested my grip. I let go, watched it backpedal and pretend not to do so.

Hmm. <Maybe turn away.> That sounded like a question. <This'll be pretty gross.>

Moorguenn barked. The second Eirin tilted its head and flippered back to Asuf's side, trilling a rising note to the woman working on my friend.

I took in a breath and let it begin. Thought hawk. Red-tailed hawk.

Bones cracked. Beak shrank, pug-like, into my head. Horns withdrew before the feathers came, an ugly green chicken with two perfectly good arms protruding out at disproportionate sizes.

They rested on either side, too heavy for non-existent muscles to lift, and began to shrivel when the rest of me already seemed perfectly feathered avian.

Then it started again. I held in the scream this time. At first.

When the exposed bone grew out, blackened and burnt, I couldn't help it. I whimpered. Hated it. Tried not to move.

Agony. Like it was new. Like every time, the morphing technology stopped giving me the good stuff and let me feel my future as a winged predator sear into nothing all over again.

A one-winged hawk. My talons clenched the floor. It beat at my side, my last wing, before I kicked the hawk instincts aside and wobbled across the cave on claw alone.

<I'm back,> I said. <How is he?>

Moorguenn's look held all the exasperation of a Rachel told not to go full grizzly.

Her eyes shifted to my wound and widened. A string of wordless sounds fell from her mouth, something high-pitched and keening. She might be worried. I set my trademark glare on Asuf, instead.

A mass of pale pink algae nestled in the crook of his neck and shoulder.

Ends bleached, twisted in the alien's hands. Like the strands in the tunnel of love. I shook myself. Despite the lack of natural light, some form of phosphorescence in the air let movement and some objects show against the dirt.

Moorguenn scooped at her side and took a piece of dull metal to curl the algae, squeezed what turned out to be handles and sealed off the ends.

A light groan drew my gaze back to the man. Fluttered eyelids drew my breath to hold, each eyelash in relief for my sharp sight.

She touched my wound.

"TSEEEEEEEEEEER!"

<Aaghh!> I shouted.

Hands up, Moorguenn nevertheless 'frowned' at me. The babbling slipped over me like a firehose. Harsh, unnecessary and powerful in the passion of that constant Eirine undertone. Talons planted, I glimpsed her through a haze. Huh. Where did that come from?

It gained another level. In volume. I rubbed the side of my head against my remaining wing, the low hiss cutting my next words down.

Where did that coming from?

Asuf?

By his hip. On the floor. Partially under rags... I hobbled to them. The hiss, dry and crackling, grew louder as I picked the tattered pieces up in my beak.

The satchel lay there. Wet but, to my rising interest as I tossed the lid open, not waterlogged. One of the blocky bits of equipment made the hiss. It ruffled my feathers. As Moorguenn continued, on a proper tirade, it flowed along with her.

It made noises. I leaned in.

_"....unfortunate soft-hearted little..."_

No. Really? Could this be what I thought it was?

_"...of course it didn't matter that I tried to..."_

Tugging it out of the satchel required more force than my landbound lightweight lifter could manage. I listened, fascinated.

_"...going to live, no thanks to..."_

<Okay, Moorguenn,> I inserted in the space of her stopping to click, apparently irate, <I've gotta thank you for helping us. You've been a great help. Thank you.>

Her mouth hung open. It shut with a soft plip. Moorguenn peered at me, squint suspicious.

<So it turns out,> I announced and gave the satchel an obvious yank, <that good old Asuf left us a translating device. I think. And,> a flutter of my good wing avoided being crushed by Moorguenn's big old flipper, <that means we can finally get down to business.>

She scooped it into her hands. A box. Few buttons or levers, if any. Simple. Useful.

My kind of alien technology. Er, human-alien.

She pawed it. Hesitated. Looked me in the eye.

"HHhhghhpppl blppltl plt."

The box spat out a short string of English. _"Theodore likes poop."_

<...Um.>

Her whole face brightened.

_"You can understand me! I can understand you!"_ Moorguenn gushed. She flushed a healthy lavender.

<Yes, yes, wonderful,> I said. It kept startling me, trying to fold wings in a comfortable shuffle when every twitch sent pangs through my whole body.

_"I saw that."_ Another try at touching kept me leaping. Not exactly built to dance on these talons, I held my tail up, levering for balance. _"I can help."_

<Can you grow limbs back?> I veered behind Asuf, noting the colour returning to his face. <Because otherwise, we have more important things to do. Like the evil, intergalactic slugs? Remember them?>

She soured. _"I need his help for that. You're injured."_

<So is he. What do you need Asuf for? He's not the guerilla fighter,> I said. She kept changing the subject. Not focused at all.

_"And you are?"_

I stared. Disbelief. <Yes? Isn't that why...?>

Oh. Oh, great. Of course. I’m an idiot.

Why would Moorguenn think I had any clue about warring with Yeerks? She'd never met me before. Hadn't visited my Earth, probably hadn't seen the real depths the slugs could sink to, hadn't made decisions to keep her up at night wondering what might be.

All the Eirin knew was that I could shapeshift and kill Yeerks. That might be enough in her eyes to be of use, but in the vein of giving advice? Of helping to fight back?

<I've fought Yeerks for a while now. Not on my own, but in my own fighting force. I know how they think. How to kill them.>

_"Do you know where they came from?"_

<From my world. Uh, universe.> Probably. <They're aliens to us, but seeing as I'm here, I have to assume we came the same way. To your planet.>

A rude sound. The box translated it as _"Hmm."_

<I didn't bring them here,> I added hastily. <But now? I'll do whatever it takes to get them off your world. At least until I find my way home.>

_"And then you'll go. Leave us behind,"_ said the joyless machine. _"Where this human would provide the might of the entire Federation, save us from ourselves. Do you see why we would prefer his help?"_

<I see it. But I'll do what I can. He's not very helpful right now, after all.>

It felt somewhat like buying myself time. To do what? To kill Yeerks?

No. Well, yes, but buying allies, a safe place, could be wise.

That's what I told myself.

_"...We will see. But first, I'll see to that burn. Rest, Teddy."_ The squat alien bent over at the waist, fixing me with those expressive eyes. A gentle croon underlaid her words.

_"I will take care of you both."_

\--

**EIRIN SCANS, COLOURISED**

APPROVED FOR GENERAL VIEWING

BY AGREEMENT

**EIRIN COMMUNE**

**UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS**

****

**The Eirin Commune has requested these images be shared for the benefit of diplomatic relations between our peoples.**

**May this continue into mutual friendship, and a propserous future.**


	20. Chapter 20

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

In deep forest below branch and stem, currents of warm air cut through the natural lime green gearr root-baskets. The fronds wove cages around their tuber-like root systems. Exposed, the gearr roots make for an easy feast. Hidden, they stand a chance to bury and propagate for another season.

Gimlets shone beneath one such basket. Unblinking.

Not so far away, close enough to be heard above the close slump of slow-moving water, a figure bowed to cupped hands.

"No, it's quite impossible. You'll simply have to contain her up there."

The gimlets narrowed to specks. Movement. Shadows of a body hunched beneath the vines.

Chattering over the radio, tinny and twanging with an unfamiliar touch of heather wastes and highlands, a voice replied. Impossible to interpret at a distance.

Yet listening to the one nearby suggested an answer unwelcome.

"I forbid it!"

The humanoid swivelled on the spot, rounding on no-one to snarl through bared teeth. "Isn't there some way of protecting the ship? The brig has forcefields."

Shuffling. Dirt moved aside. For a moment, a brief second, the smooth curve of yellowish keratin showed through a finger-wide gap in the vines. One big eye glared at the outside world. It disappeared quickly as it came.

"...No. No, I can't... Look, Scotty." _Click_.

Frustration. A shouted "Damn these contemptible fools!"

Another _click_. "You said McCoy's gotten close to her. Does he know of anything that might keep this whole situation from setting off?"

A quietness stable in the absence of creeping insects or singing birds beneath the trees.

The other speaker, thick tongued, yelped. Excitable.

"Mr. _Spock_. You're sure?"

_Crunch_.

Schlurp. _Spwat_ , _spwat_. Sprooooot...

In stillness of the grove, those noises beneath the gearr would turn any stomach. Like something being murdered. Like torture. Wet, impossible sounds, without pulling someone's teeth from the bleeding gums.

A long, clawed leg thrust from the gearr basket.

Extensive and gusty, the speaker sighed. He breathed loud enough to fill a jungle.

_Click_.

"Alright, Scotty. I'll send Spock to shuttle up to you. But wait for my signal. We're doing delicate work down here. And under no circumstances," turned low, soft, a truly dangerous bend of wrist and hand to mime what he left unsaid, "is anyone to use the transporter without my permission. Kirk out."

Pierced by clawed feet, a small feathered body emerged from the torn hole to balance on absurdly large legs.

Black ankle joints arched in a faux M behind it. Using a beak the size and shape of perfectly round fingernails, it nibbled the primary feathers tucked at its sides.

The bird, head cocked to the side, seemed to listen.

Patience rewarded by a curse and distant, stomping footsteps. They faded into rising murmurs of fresh rain.

The little bird fluttered to an overhead perch. Legs strung out behind it, the limbs lashed forward to seize passing stems. as its wings whirred feathered afterimages.

Pausing to look up - to peer, an interest in the common underside of the canopy - it sat still.

In a rapid shake of its body, the bird lunged after voices long gone.

\--

"Suit up, Mr. Spock."

Xenylon. Algae-based culture vats synthesized for environmental control and distinction between colour and form. Controlled and deployed by Starfleet.

Reported to a linear format. By rote. Clinical as the memory of hundreds, carefully counted minutes to the thousand in service bearing Sky Blue Mark III.

Most informative. Unfortunately useless data outside of context.

A fresh uniform. Unspoiled by pool fluids, altered to display the rank of Commander.

The vulcan ignored his superior's tone.

Remarkable, this host's sense of hearing. At times it seemed capable of locating the Sub-Visser host's very heartbeat.

At times it neared driving him to practice the murderous arts perfected by his new alien body.

Baring teeth in the human fashion, those glittering green eyes came close to an intimacy. "They'll be expecting you shortly."

A controlled shiver. Chilled winds coasted the mountainside, combing dark abdominal hairs. Herun 332 slipped into the foreign uniform, used to the strange contentedness of a stranger's clothes.

<Abor thinks to hide. Without witnesses, a coward.> And a fool.

Fooled by the very intention of climbing over Herun's impending failures. Becoming the image of loyalty required obeisance to ignorance. Acknowledgement of the undeserving.

Pride in the Empire should come before self-serving quivering. A dog to pretend otherwise in the presence of other loyal yeerks.

Despite seniority Herun had no option to refuse accompaniment to the crashed human vessel. Abor 1292's right to observe the recapture of escaped hosts, this 'Federation' clan of humans, gainsaid those not blessed by Sub-Visser Four-hundred-three.

An edge to his lip curled into a sneer, ghost to a slave not long abandoned. Taken possession of by some lesser yeerk. This host did not smile, Herun realized.

Impressions. Chain links. Icy and volcanic, the depths of a skull frozen into submission. <The Galileo disincludes active visual records. Her security systems have proven inadequate.>

<A battle waged just outside,> Herun mused. <She may prove our undoing.>

He watched with some vitriol as Spock, his most recent unwilling landlord, engaged basic levels of Herun 332's new and magnificent brain.

Lower levels. Not essential to motorlogical function, certainly not a threat to a capable yeerk's control.

Without permission.

The barest hint of curiosity, an innocence humble to a vicious encounter with its new master.

Enough.

Nerve endings seized in outstretched vestiges of flesh, Herun 332 flooded that annoyance in blood.

He cut through a brief lack of guile.

<Halt in your efforts, slave,> crept the whisper between isolated rings of agonised squeezing.

Crushing.

<Or you will beg. Does the proud Commander Spock truly wish to grovel? Do I need to waste time on a feeble rebellion?>

To escape, he had no doubt. They always tried to escape.

Amusing. Exasperating.

<Did I not agree, Herun 332, with your own thoughts?> Spock replied. <Attempting to torture me is illogical. It is,> clipped to absolutes, Herun on his heel, <as I might quote, 'dividing the house against itself'. A house divided cannot stand.>

The previous host, a human, never ceased to try. A game. It soured for him. Playing seemed so pointlessly trivial. So uninspired.

So very _bourgeois_.

Rifling through veritable treasures of memorised fineries may seem a relished task to a yeerk derived of immediate purpose. Herun 332 instead focused his gaze on their disfigured shuttlecraft.

Spock knew Abor 1292 lingered. Herun required a quick glance to ensure that, yes, his instincts again proved reliable.

The others ignored Herun's quickened attentions aside from some odd looks, his bowlcut head on a swivel throughout their quick march through the jungle.

A wonder to capture this body in the first place. Herun suspected an assassin would have quite the problem with his vulcan.

Spock's near-indiscernable activity did not abate. A grinding distraction on the somewhat patient yeerk's last nerve as Abor's dimwitted Federation soldier act continued in the same vein.

Long burns on the outer shuttle walls, he told himself. Brought considerable focusing power on the importance of locating every marr, any unexplained sign of unfriendly fire. Marked twice by differentiated aerated metallics.

It felt rough beneath his palm, if cool. Not dracon fire. Herun didn't recognize the source.

Supplied, in short. Phaser fire.

Another likely long-winded offering thrust aside, his elongated stature cast three Starfleet-Controllers in his wake to stalk alongside the ship's tritanium skin.

The shuttlecraft - the Galileo, ignoring a rich history in human designations - combined economy and practicality in a way he would consider peculiar among space-faring species. Herun must admit, running long fingers on white engine covers, to appreciate the attitude.

Far removed from greenish-black insectoid craft or enormous, monstrously expensive andalite ships. Yes. Most enjoyable.

And yet an appalling, impractical, blazing white.

Crumbled mud in the short and brilliant sunlight gleamed by Esplin 6603's crushed innards.

If Harun looked closely, he imagined, his comrade may lie exposed to the open air. Compound fractures in a skull broken apart to pulp grey matter, to spray a crystallized congealment of blood. Esplin 6603 exterminated as if the host did not exist at all. A deceptively helpless corpse.

Harun did not look closely.

Three-toed trenches in flesh left by the Empire's most fearsome weaponised host body, meaning treachery or worse.

Harun allowed his gaze to trickle on past the dusty walls. Filth imperfectly concealing at least three criss-crossing lines of blood spray.

Fascinating.

<Eirine would appear to possess pressurized pockets of blood within the cranial cavity.>

Reactive blood pockets. Perhaps violently reactive.

<I should report this.>

He blinked. That voice sounded nothing like him.

A reset. Herun shook himself and ran a hand over too-smooth hair.

If Herun, the yeerk, took an eirin host body and began to physically explore the brain structure... could this be a natural defence against infestation? One deadly to both the host and the yeerk?

No. It couldn't be. Not so far from home, behind enemy lines, without a supply of bodies or back-up Kandrona generators. Not another hurdle.

A small band of capable yeerk warriors. Displaced. Unearthed. Thrust from the Empire. Every decision or mistake making turns for the future of their very race.

Victory, or the end of all things.

And here lay another undocumented danger. He could taste that sour note already.

And of course, being the messenger of ill omen, the cursed biological minefields may well be named after his executed, presumably incompetent corpse.

A piece of the ship snapped clear away.

Herun stared, unthinking, at his hands. A tremor played across a green-tinged cheek frozen to the west-bound wind.

Strength. Vulcan strength. He'd barely called upon the horrifying power of this very human-like alien. It actually disfigured the shuttlecraft further.

Herun thrust it back. Shuttle plate alloy clattered on the rocks.

Hands in the air as if disgusted, Herun bore hard eyes into an unhelpfully present Abor 1292.

"A pathetic ship. Even for the humans," Herun huffed. An unpleasant burn of hatred pulsed through the arm touching Abor's shoulder as the Controller brushed past.

Heat prickled the sensitive ends to his audial receptors. Ears.

Herun discovered a healthy green flush to this body's extremities mere minutes into initial infestation. It bled the colour of Earth grass.

A poor joke on the choice of vegetation over the consumption of flesh could be made here, but Herun 332 held himself above such vulgarities.

Avoiding what the vulcan so helpfully described as an illogical reaction to workplace-related social encounters, he accommodated himself to the Galileo's decreased internal lighting from what Spock's memories informed him to be the chair designed for Command personnel.

Snapped commands sent his crew into the next step of their mission.

Hiding visible signs of damage. Repairing necessary components for travel. Concealing weapons.

One Controller, a heavyset host better meant for labour, sweated over swirling designs set into a casing meant to protect their brothers and sisters. To hide their true purpose.

Artful work dragged the eye away from an object's true purpose. To be visible is to be invisible.

A few moments spare. To wait and plan for the inevitable screw-up. Herun 332 collected himself.

For the circumstance he may turn to his advantage.

Climbing the ranks, gaining power, took every means necessary. Herun 332 was not a Sub-Visser. Working beneath those more ambitious than himself, ambition requiring a worthiness to lead, left him the wiser for the art of survival.

Every yeerk had a talent of use to the Empire. Herun knew adaptation.

Claiming chance as a weapon, a tool, kept the Visser's taxxons at bay. It kept Herun one step ahead of lesser yeerks.

It kept him alive.

A graceful arch of steepled hands framed the narrow window. Herun raised his chin to observe them. His own fingers.

So natural. Easy, to slip into a host's natural habit. To claim them as his own.

Dangerous.

The voice banished to a dark corner of its own cranium stirred.

<Fear is not a logical response,> it whispered.

Herun 332 laughed. It was a dark, spiny thing.

The host persisted. Now a dwindling sound, water dripping from a cave wall, it could not avoid a wheedling capitulation to its own captivity.

<This posture has proven worthwhile to aid in clear thought. As an added benefit, humans appreciate the visual cue to allow my privacy. They would not disturb you.>

<If only to remind you of your situation, little calculator,> Herun 332 dribbled, <I shall choose to repose with my fingers. I am not lacking in compassion. After all... it is not as though you could do it yourself.>

Silence.

Locked from every function, the body did not respond to concealed stress as Herun had experienced in his cross-section of several human hosts. No excess of bile. His heart, apparently somewhere within the abdomen, did not even quiver.

Herun 332 retained perfect control.

If only as in a perfect world, he could silence that incessant buzzing...

"Abor 1292." Crisp without requiring to actually face the blithering twit hovering over Herun's subordinates. "The Sub-Visser will be expecting you."

"Of course, Herun 332. Safe travels."

<Over my dead body, fool,> Herun damned him.

The void answered. It should remain silent. <An illogical premise. A dead body would not hinder him beyond creating a tripping hazard.>

<If not for your Federation's pathetic crisis protocol, I could be punishing Esplin 6603's murderers even now,> Herun lamented. <Though I suppose it serves our cause well. In short time, the starship will belong to us, and that personal log of yours destroyed. No warnings to Starfleet, no information taken from meddling little girls.>

And hadn't that been an awakening, to realize the fearsome Andalite Bandits to be nothing more than a clique of human children!

<No chance to stop our glorious march!>

<You do not recognize the inevitability of your failure.>

Homeworld help him, the Spock creature spoke as if to another of its kind. With sympathy.

He listened. Cautious. The beginnings of glee, experiential precognition of good sport with foolish, futile prey.

<Pray tell.>

<Every moment of my service aboard the Enterprise is recorded for your own perusal, Yeerk.>

Chilly. Departing warmth and coming in for assault. An interesting tactic.

<A request, then. To observe memories and see an 'inevitability'.> Herun poured his natural scepticism behind unseeing eyes.

<You are but one among many. And we have defeated them all.>

Coming from one already defeated. Herun 332 tasted blood.

Well. He had the time. His crew could handle the clean-up without him, given the few commands to authorise it. And Herun hadn't indulged in giving a host false hope for such a very long time.

<I will allow it,> he decided. A grip on the leather hand rest encouraged the sense of a coming drop. A sense of vertigo, anticipation.

Herun 332 sat that way for some time. He sat through the rewelded alloy plates. The application of quick-set materials to hide burns and clawed sections where the murderer stole from several ship compartments before fleeing with a valuable host.

Eyes wide, Herun saw the stars.


	21. Chapter 21

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

Cruuuunch.

His great barrel chest caught the edge of a blunt metal tray. It crumpled. So did the pair of hands holding it.

Fingers clawed into palms, her face drew tight in terror.

“Neeeeeeeiiighhhhegghhhhh!”

He screamed.

Ears flat, the stallion appeared more skull than placid herd beast. Both pride and chaotic, blinding fear bleated into the fallen crewman’s face.

She needed little encouragement to roll back her eyes and go to sleep.

Hooves pounding, each leg mashed carpet in the patented prance of Minneapolis Max.

Flicked tail, a burst of electric energy fired all 1,100 pounds of pure kinetic madness down the hallway.

The caverns pressed close to bristle the short hairs on his sides, his curved ears. It smelled all the same, and to focus the dark eyesight on a wall showed the sameness of the close space he’d woken up in. He didn’t mind.

Max just wanted to run. Where he ended up? It might matter when he got there.

_Boom boom boom boom_. Thundering, a storm cloud over shaking ground.

Dim shapes lunged from the walls. They cried out. It urged the racehorse to greater speed. They always ducked back, leaving him free of distracting, noisy fenceposts.

Max knew this. The chase. Horse against man, against horse, against anything so foolish as to challenge him.

Running. He knew running.

Lightly panting, the golden, fine stallion slowed. Another sliding stone moved, cracks sealing shut. The dark shapes hid behind it. It made loud sounds.

He kicked it. Sure of his glory, the stallion pranced, neck arched.

“Miss Crawford!”

Max started.

Room enough to turn, a hock bouncing from the walls, the stallion flared his nostrils.

A shade. The hazy outline stood directly in his way.

The itch. The indescribable urge. A beating heart thumping fire and clean room to run. Excited as a popinjay in summer, Max whickered. The thrill demanded he not stay still. It killed him to stand still.

An effort shifted the walls out of sight and onto the dim figure. He saw it. The small head and two legs, an instrument balanced in flexible paws that moved in circles.

Max’s head twitched. He decided. He’d make a way.

No little, soft figure stopped the unstoppable force of Minneapolis Max. The only stallion in these parts. None answered screamed challenges, lay their own scent markers for him to dominate.

Perhaps a little further and he’d find the open spaces. The place to run without moving walls. Where his magnificent chest could flash and pump muscle without bruises.

Power overwhelming. A trot jolted the mane to fall over his eyes.

The shade made as if to move.

“No, Cindy! Stop!”

His skull almost cracked against the low ceiling. A heaviness on the side of his neck, the loose skin pinched hard, caught him flat-footed. Max stopped.

Soft. Rough. Familiar.

And bold.

Max didn’t like bold. But… Max didn’t really _want_ to bite.

A paw stretched wide, into fingers over the fine hairs of his nose. Scents followed the stroke, nares wide to taste each one. A sharp tang. Broad, thick coatings chased by an image of shining puddles, the colour of rain. No. Pictures after rain. A rain…bow.

Mind numb, the stallion gazed ahead, chomping the air. Thinking. His nose bumped into a waiting palm.

“’Ats it… atta girl…”

Familiar. A slight quiver knocked the smallest finger aside. It brushed his cheek to greet an old friend.

But the vague shadow rubbing his forehead didn’t have the shape nor scent of his herd. It didn’t have the right.

His ears pinned back.

Max thrust the lean muscle of his neck out. Skin slipped out of the shade’s grip. He shoved past.

Had to move. The crush closed in on his hips, the hock sore from rebounding in an earlier near-collision, a trap he sensed clear as a rope round his neck.

The hunt of these strange animals better suited to the tunnels. They fit in perfectly.

Minneapolis Max didn’t like feeling afraid. He took it personally.

The paw shoved back. His nose bent.

“Cindy Crawford,” grunted a voice too close, a man, his breath a stench of burning, foul death, “I ain’t about to let you go. So for both our sakes, stop! Right now!”

It gripped his nose. Soft muzzle collapsed into a malleable handhold, his great head moved slightly to the left.

It nearly maddened Max. Now he really wanted to bite.

Thunder struck with nowhere to go. The clack shied the stallion to the side, fingered paw keeping grip as his teeth clamped shut. He tried to toss his head. A muffled squeal of protest didn’t shift the shade.

It held on. Pinched skin at his neck and Max rolled his eyes to show the whites. It had two hands and enough strength to stand against his nervous shuffling.

What thing was this? Not a horse. It didn’t flee. No biting, no clawing or straddling. It merely held on.

Movement! Too close, his head yanked down, fast!

“No, don’t-!”

“Shut it! Hold still!” Adder-sharp slowed into coos, words in his ear, Max startled to listen. “Now there, hold on, missy madness… there you go… that’s it, short up, I mean shut up, ahahh, what would a flipping horse know…”

Ear twisted to rapidly moving lips. Focused to pierce the darkness, Max looked from one shadow to the next. To find that strangely powerful small thing on his nose. And the one tugging, speaking, holding his head to make awful, intimate eye contact.

Too close. Too angry, fearful, she smelled it and he hated, needed, wanted to fight. Unchallenged! No challenger could beat Minneapolis Max!

Stallion of the low tunnels!

“Now now… it’s just your old friends, here’s Mr. Scott, see… he’s nice. Hey, loosen up a bit. Yeah, good. We’re just here to help. Why’re you running about all crazy, hey…? Hey now…”

But the stroke down his face didn’t strike Max as _bad_. Misguided, maybe. Foolish.

Legs bunched to clear the floor, front hooves brushing air, Max came down to listen. The hand on his ear didn’t twist it now but held in a firm paw.

The walls stood close. He could lean that way and crush bone. Break the puny shadows.

He didn’t do it.

Max didn’t know why.

It could be the comforting weight on his shoulder. Could have been the way the whispers made sense. May be how deliberate, how unyielding the three-pronged trap of nose, ear and neck muddled through a mix of complicated smells to still his fighting spirit.

But Max calmed down.

The muscle of his barrel chest stopped twitching. His hooves came down, if a little hard, to stay planted.

And the grip on his nose relaxed. Simple strokes, scratching a little higher. The delicate cone of an ear released, the voice standing on tiptoe to whisper peace.

Max liked it. Ears perked forward, he leaned into the second touch on his cheek as it rubbed in slow circles. Rising and falling like the breath in his own chest, the beat of a heart. A step closer pushed his great head into arms. The shade accepted him without a flinch.

Despite hating it, knowing his lordship over the caves, a flush of pleasure blew soft whickers from the warm embrace.

“There, there…” A specially good scratch. Max closed his eyes. He breathed the sharp, oily scent from the stroking hand. “Good girl. That’s it. Come on, now, running about the ship… what set you off, huh?”

“Real good, Mr. Scott,” said the whisperer. A stretch to its voice sounded happy.

“Ah, just like handling our engines after a spot of trouble… just a bit of tender lovin’ care, hey?”

But the hugger felt hot around Max’s nose.

Another ‘knowing’. He didn’t know what it meant. Someone else did.

Familiar. Yes.

Click. A click in his head.

He knew this. But where…?

Remember. Thinking. His head thrust up. The bridge of his muzzle caught a pointed chin.

The shade swore.

Max stared over their heads. Over the two men’s heads. People. A Mr. Scott’s bent, charcoal-brown standard hairdo. He was… and she…

Cassie. She was Cassie. I’m…

<Sorry. I’m sorry!>

Nuzzling seemed inadequate, somehow. And kind of inappropriate. But it’s all I had.

Images. My mind swam with colours. Memories, of course. Blinding in the rapidity, the sense of being there, experiencing it second-hand.

“So she _does_ speak,” marvelled the guy who knew the ear-twisting technique. I stilled, careful not to tread on any toes.

Unshed tears caught on thick eyelashes made me feel a lot worse than worrying about turning into a horse, of all things. Mr. Scott stood very still, barely breathing, to a nudged exploration of the bump rising where I’d smashed him. Hurt him. A friend. Or not an enemy, as far as I knew.

A surge of tired affection had my thick tongue out to lick his chin.

…Ew.

A vibration me pause. Through invisible stubble prickling my nose, must have just woken up, the crewman chuckled. He pushed me back. “There you are!”

I must have appeared properly cowed. The man touching my ear stepped away, nodding politely. Mr. Scott, apparently true to his name, kept his ground and settled hands on his hips to look me over.

"Fit as a fiddle, though I'm no horseman. Oz?" beamed the man in uniform red.

My ear-twister knew his business. A check for soundness, palpating the sore muscles on my barrel and running along the airways for clear breathing while keeping us in propriety brushed by smoothly enough. Even Max seemed happy. 'Oz' signalled a thumbs-up.

"Suppose that means you're fighting-fit," Mr Scott shrugged. "And just what," consternation caught in ruddy cheeks with all the subtle influence of a fried fuse box, "was that? Eh?" A head shorter than his friend, the thick brogue matched his chest-to-barrel approach. "You've only gone an' injured five of the crew, some enough to have the poor doctor spittin' fire at his staff!"

"Reconstructive surgery."

<What?>

My shoulder twitched to the husky whisper. 'Oz' looked down at the floor, hands behind his back. Mr. Scott clicked his fingers to draw my head front-and-center.

<Oh man,> I said, clambering over useless stallion hormones. <I hurt people?>

Need-to-kick. Need-to-run.

Need to get my head on my shoulders. Getting overrun by a horse? Mr. Prancer of Dumbsville?

Gone and did it without even meaning to. A new record, Cassie. Well done, officially ruining your good first impression with alternate-reality super-advanced humans.

Yes. I did remember crushing someone's hands.

Max tucked his head between his forelegs. The bones trembled against my muzzle, vision worse than usual. Ready to let loose again and flee like a frightened deer.

Not from gentle-handed Mr. Scott, a nasal huff brought my big eye to land on a semi-reclined Mr. Oz. He refused to look up.

The concept of actually losing my mind doesn’t break news for me.

It’s funny. I’ve said how far from normal my life has become, right? That I’m not ‘nice’. I’m not the innocent person who wouldn’t hurt someone to save her life, the lives of her friends.

It would be easy to blame all of that on my powers. On the morphing ability. On the Andalites, for creating it, or the Yeerks for giving me no other morally acceptable choice but fighting.

I sacrifice my mind for the right to defend my world, the animals I’ve been given the privilege to become.

At times those animals can take up more space in my head than me. The first moments of a new morph almost always take that element of conscious, think-therefore-I-am choice and thrust it into a thickshake of panic-angry-instinct that can be hard to overcome.

It’s one reason why we try not to morph into a new body alone. Without someone to shake us back to reality, to I-am-Cassie… well. Let’s say Jake’s lucky he wasn’t eaten by one of us in his lizard morph.

But not being capable of remembering how? When? _Why_?

I didn’t raise my head. Max, surrendered to my control, felt a similar dread.

_< What’s happening to me?>_

So softly the wind changed.

Meat. Nostrils flared to catch it. Raw meat.

Close. Very close.

The big eye stayed on Mr. Oz, so close to my shoulder, relaxed against a shallow alcove in the wall. A niche for his smaller body. Lithe. Muscular, I noted, tremble transitioned into a weird hum of intensity in knowing how very close he stood. Close enough to sling an arm over my withers. To twist my ear. Wake me up.

He smelled good.

Max startled. Both men jumped.

Relief and a bizarre disappointment cut my ears flat to let them catch on. To what? Catch on to what?

Hooves skittered. Oz came closer but I didn’t _want_ him to.

Not right. Disconnected? No, confusion. Yes. I couldn’t think.

Scents familiar to me, Cassie, hunger and taste distant but waking a string of drool in the need to chew. To graze. I didn’t want to graze. I wanted to…

Reach over and take what _it_ wanted. The snarl in my throat knew better than grass and alfalfa.

Oz screamed.

His entire body came up in crushing, inch-long teeth. My neck strained to hold him there, uniform wetted dark crimson.

Little man couldn’t run. A blow struck my head, weak as a fly, just motion registered by my own screaming. Jaw muscles worked to bite harder. It didn’t pierce. It crumbled.

I crumbled.

Not me. <Not me!>

It wasn’t me!

He collapsed. I tore free to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patronage, and your time. I appreciate each and every one of you.  
> This is a note to mark a point in favour of the future; reaching 50,000 words. It may not have been possible without the encouragement of my peers. I can honestly say that this story is already something I can be proud of.
> 
> Many blessings, and enjoy.


	22. Chapter 22

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

He chose the moment as memory dictated. Perfect by vulcan technique and yeerk discernment of the mind.

The Enterprise, honoured flagship to the human-central United Federation of Planets. All personnel held to terrific standard. Units competent, leading by example.

A theoretical method of control unreached by the Yeerk Military and perhaps the most venerable Council of Thirteen. Great minds of the Empire, potential in such uneducated and deeply inferior species! Comparable only to those few quite mad enough to succeed as a Visser's direct subordinates.

Herun 332 knew enough to understand the quietude of his host.

Spock retained those respected few. Without the need for violent competition, they retained him.

A difficult man. An efficient subordinate.

Therefore no better moment could be chosen than to arrive quietly. As routine expected.

Cleared for entry, the open shuttle bay collected the Galileo in vacuum. No warm bodies to greet their passage besides watchers in the windows, Herun sat in comfort, fiddling with crossed safety restraints.

Conversation fell to murmurs from the code-sealed back compartment. Visible as his green flush might be from the viewing platforms, Herun remained eyes-forward.

A sincere hope they might suffocate back there tightened his grip on the instrumentation. It preceded heat pulling blood to the surface as he noted again, a circular form of thought-taking peculiar to Spock, the peculiar organic material blocking excess lifesigns from security scans.

One less problem. He thanked whoever might be listening for bizarrely useful lesser organisms and their bio-organic compounds.

Controls trembling just so underhand, Spock's flawless recall for transition from space to internal tractor beam withdrew the yeerk to wait.

Unfortunate for the ship's computing regulations on unnecessary termination avoidance. Yet the short bark of _galard_ and scrape of stumbling feet curved the sharp line of his lips in an inhuman smile.

If Sub-Visser Four-hundred-three insisted upon complicating operations, his loyalty must belong to satisfying normal procedure. Not self-deluded grandeur. Not more, useless _bodies_.

Most unfortunate. Herun did not extrapolate on the changes his people would make upon seizing the Enterprise.

His host had facility enough to know without such posturing.

Security measures stretched to scanners on hangar entry. His shuttle flew serene as the celestial Madra, alloys registering as Starfleet standard to satisfaction of their smiling crewmen watchers.

Inventory took longer. He came prepared.

Herun found his new mouth able after many minutes of speaking. For a self-appointed recluse aboard a vessel populated by humans, Spock apparently found the time to practice tongue-wagging. It sincerely tempted a yeerk to break his perfect control.

Tight rein to remain the experienced soldier. He controlled an insane urge to bare teeth and bring shame on his captive.

To enjoy it. To enjoy _him_.

Herun 332 of old would sacrifice a hundred lesser forms for this ease in impersonation. A host inclined against emotional fluctuation!

All so fickle. Changeable, experiential.

Somehow aware - a worthwhile observational instinct - a grimace stole his distraction. The Flight Deck Officer, becurled lady of forty years, swift and unforgiving.

"Commander, Mr. Scott on intercom."

Herun paused mid-elucidation.

Stiff-necked, a cold glance masked Herun's dive into less recent memory. Mr. Scott. An engineer. No, the Chief Engineer. Spock knew him.

Spock inclined their head.

Herun 332 returned.

A hard shove seized that forked tongue under rightful command.

"Lieutenant Sek. Priority command in my absence." Knowing looks between the four chosen companions, a nod from Heraff 866. "Defer to his experience in storage and deployment of our cargo."

His wave cut short to avoid a surge of worry. Concern worded so by a captive audience, a very dim part of him noting the strangely helpful inclination.

Herun 332 locked eyes with Heraff. Every psychic inclination his host possessed bit across imminent death in return for any sign of incompetence.

The lieutenant swept a sleeve over his forehead. Smiled and made their excuses.

Certainly no sign of fever, no ma'am. Faulty air conditioning. A long trip with returning crewmates.

Passing a familiar haunt of rolled eyes, Herun strode to the active Comm unit.

"Commander Spock here. Mr. Scott, do you read?"

The panel lit to a certainly unsmiling face. An impression to stir less useful memories, Herun forced himself forward, mask forebade in cold efficiency.

Source of perturbation in loudly romanticist humanity, the proud scotsman stared somewhere off-screen.

'Scotty' spat, cheeks aglow. "Sir! You've got to come quick! She's-"

" _NEiIIIGHHHRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUUOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWHHHHLLL_!"

The vulcan's stomach chilled. Nausea slunk in those icy mists.

Wrong.

No, not wrong. To a point, perhaps, familiar.

Unfamiliar. The contrast of disagreement disturbed Spock's sense of logic. Most uncomfortable.

A scream.

Mr. Scott left afterimages in red, his hair blown up from a swift drop out of sight.

Herun repressed an illogical desire to peer 'down' over the screen edge.

Grey.

Folds of skin, tight bone and a long whisker broken near the base. In place of the unfortunate human, the thing known as one of Herun 332's greatest enemies pressed her shifting musculature against glass.

Moved.

His insides turned.

A huge yellow eye. Not a sign on Mr. Spock's bloodless face. The pupil splattered in drops of horizontal ink.

It shrank to needlepoint.

His lips moved on their own. Fury crushed Herun like a bug.

"Andalite _filth_."

\--

Montgomery refused to blink. The thing might turn an ugly shade of spine-tingling unfortunate, and that he felt to his flexible boot tips.

It might react to movement.

It bloody well might react to the stench of sheer terror out of every pore, but you can't control hormones. Unless you're a little bit more than human.

"Spock better get here soon."

From the heart, now.

How they'd come to this - walkway blocked, careful sidesteps over his own feet, tongue ferociously bitten - and on his poor, lovely lady? A question Mr. Scott asked himself most evenings.

Rumours. Maybe letting on some to a chatty aide, or three. All kept in line of course, marching busy. An engineer worked best on a full mind and empty stomach, he always said.

But if a very important memo didn't appear at the next staff meeting, his precious set of Great Highland 'Pipes'd get beamed into the next star to burn up like his own poor wits!

Lines of slick light caught on two-inch long teeth.

Scotty's slip and scramble squealed complaint from his knee. It also left him untouched, squinting through the pain.

"Ye blighter! Gonna try and bite? Poor old me?"

Nothing in that puff-wrinkled face let on life-saving comprehension under a wheedled tone.

The way little Cindy's twisted claws pressed her toes out under her beastly weight. Scotty's blood near froze.

Her hooves spread. Split into four cloppety wedges.

A sharp breath left his slide over carpet with less effort than expected.

It followed.

Heaven help him. It ignored Oz.

Lolloping stride, head low, it approached. The hulk grew somewhere between graceful and disturbing.

His scamper left no room to stand.

Montgomery's head flashed clear as glass. This might be it. He might be distressed to recognize those words as familiar. Killed by a shapeshifting guest.

One for the books, he supposed. For any other starship, that is.

_Crunch_.

Scotty's hand laid over his heart.

The beast touched her jaw. It cracked.

Bony foreleg overgrown in grey hair she better resembled an alien beastie than previously Terran-limited forms. As if on stilts, her foot dropped back to a quadrupedal stance. She wobbled.

Panted. White behind her teeth. It caught his eye.

There's something about fear that fogs the mind. Keeps important equations from their ends, stops grown men in their tracks and ends a long career in dishonourable discharge.

But the Enterprise's Chief Engineer never quite understood it. He didn't take to flight when death stalked the crew and it never kept him from proving their ship a fighter among sheep.

Fear sharpened him. And he saw the bone, caught in those draconic jaws.

Scotty liked dogs. He remembered every one in his life, dreamed and played at taking a bushy fellow over hills and heather.

His fingers stroked the air, wishing to be brave enough. The scent of heavy breath gasped from those massive lungs thick enough to taste.

If Scotty turned his head just so, thought hard about a hot night in Albury's little planetside pub, he could just place that ragged urchin on her horsey shoulders. Great big fella. All jowls and hair. Choking.

On a bone, of course. Ate most anything, including huge chunks of lamb cuttings, caught between streams of slippery spit.

Its master'd been terrified, he remembered, and Montgomery's heart sure flipped an Argelian II dance number at her rolling eyes.

'Course, it could be that particular shade of sunflower yellow.

"Sir!"

On his feet before he knew it, Scotty revised his musings on not being inclined towards flight.

The harsh whisper kept on. "Get out of here!"

"Osmund, you're mad," the engineer muttered. "Jus' lie there and keep quiet!"

The mutter turned brazen, shouted as Scotty glared over Cindy's ruff. Her ears tucked flat.

Fresh out of veterinarians. No owners or helpful, partially inebriated locals. No presence of mind left, he assumed, to take a diplomatic approach.

A sharp piece it was. Scotty touched his own chin.

His ensign shook his head, pale and clutching his shirt to pull just above the bite. Oz's eyes wandered apart and back to focus.

"No' - not tryin' to be a hero. Dogs chase... hovercars."

"Well, I'd have never thought it of -"

"Hey!"

Air flew over his head, spine thrown down at the hip.

Solid wall to his back, Montgomery propelled himself several steps down the hall.

Cindy remained hanging her big head, hacking. Gazing at nothing. The jut of her jaw drooled freely on the floor to give the air of a stunned mullet.

Ensign Oz propped himself against a door. The security override sealed it shut. Sweat shone his forehead from across the way.

"Sorry."

Tongue run on that tooth bent to curve an l in his gums, speed ran another few calculated suspicions on her destructive potential.

Fast. If not a little imprecise.

Tiny deficits and minor changes in his Lady's anti-matter vasculars tuned a man's senses. So many years fine-tuning and testing, keeping to perfected efficiency levels, perhaps a little in reserve for those real dog days.

Her most shapely alloy skin, round a terrible beating heart. No, the Enterprise held no secrets from him.

Those senses proved true. A slight tremble in enormous yellow eyes. Shrunken pupils, likely blinded and confused. A swaying barrel chest.

She didn't look at all well.

No extra hands but his own. And Scotty couldn't risk tucking fingers between those teeth.

Pressed lips kept him stern, thinking liquid through the seconds of finding cracks round a wall panel. Unclipped nails guided by his particular brand of intuition dug in and yanked. It pried away.

The hairs under his sleeves stood at attention by a light whinny.

Montgomery dove into his best-loved inorganic arteries.

Pulse pestering the delicate work, a pause to rub his face came costly.

Bellowing, an old set of fire stokers with a nasty wet twist grew louder. Labouring. Faster.

Past surface wiring, a pipette rare but for this level of the ship. It came free. End pinched tight, the elastic tubing came where he pointed it.

Scotty nearly ended his life's adventures as the ship's floor shook once. Hard.

Tip of tongue between teeth, the breathless engineer thrust himself around. Aimed.

Her snout pointed into carpet by the natural bend of her neck.

I'm the sorry one. Forgive me, missy.

He released the pinched nozzle.

_Pshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_.

She staggered back.

"HHHHHUUUUUAAAAAAAAAARRGHHHHH!"

Scotty couldn't look away. Until he had to.

Around when the fur slagged off her face. Flesh and specks of what must be bone left behind, pocketed by raw engine coolant.

An indescribable smell.

Come to his senses, the tube sealed shut by quick fingers, he deactivated the coolant flow.

Back turned. Scotty breathed over his hands. Felt it touch his cheeks, forehead, running them through hair.

A soft sound. Running feet. Coming to the rescue.

They settled the twitch along his spine. A nerve taken since the damned animal stole that lovely little girl's voice away.

A shout went unanswered. Frowning mounted a little more tension on his beleaguered face.

Work done. But so much, too much, unfinished.

Poor Oz.

Taller and infinitely better fitting the red, a touch at his back and careful encouragement to stand up drew the frown away. Three security officers. Not his boys but plenty welcome.

Scotty managed a nod and toed past.

His ensign's closed eyelids squeezed a very quiet huff into his palm.

So he remained. So the good doctor found him.

And some interminable amount of time later, so did a noticeably perturbed Mr. Spock.

\--

Joints showed beneath transparent skin of hands at work. First the lips. Damp air on fingertips, breathing clear. A gentle touch over the young man's clammy hair set Dr. McCoy's own heart to a regular beat.

Particular veins over knuckles denoted, in his opinion, a desirable range of experience. Ensign Osmund would probably agree.

A quiet choice of tablemate, he'd last seen Osmund at mess call.

It sat wrong to break fast with a man and see him dead before the fellow digested his porridge.

His sigh rang clipped as the orders to his attentive medical team. Sat back on haunches, Leonard's wrist propped on his knee. Sweat slicked from hair went uncared-for.

It seemed an odd time to smile. But the worry squashing their ruddy-faced mechanical genius prompted genuine merriment at McCoy's news.

He took just a confirmation from an ease-of-access medical scanner before clapping Scotty on the shoulder.

"Looks like we won't be amending any personnel reports for another rotation. Our hero saved himself some paperwork!"

"...No hero."

The expected went happily unnoticed. Leonard moved the both of them to an open archway. Scotty mumbled into a dark sleeve.

In lieu of an escaped mad guest, their Chief Engineer's words, not his, the corridor shutdown ended with her collapse. It meant a quiet place out of the medical response team's way and a more private debrief.

Perhaps more personal.

Ensign Oz' life signs bleeped from his waiting stretcher, followed by a watery gaze.

Leonard favoured a no-contact visual check over immediately sticking fingers into orifices. His friend and crewmate's hearth rhythm behaved itself on a lightweight hand scanner.

Satisfied, the doctor trailed his gaze across the unfortunate elephant in the room.

Cindy. Unchanged from stolen seconds of a panicked comm call. Somewhere between the build of a rather beautiful thoroughbred and an increasingly monotonous lupine tenacity.

She gasped for air. The deep wheeze was not unlike a blocked wind instrument.

Bloodshot eyes. Short breaths at an increased rate. Growing beats per minute. McCoy cast for another subject. Wondered if touch might be welcome, or in Scotty's case, a potential threat.

"In Georgia we'd shoot anything that made that noise."

Mr. Scott's hands went straight to his mouth.

A benign urge to giggle tickled the centre of Bones' forehead. It wrinkled.

"I'm kidding." A jump of his heart almost set the doctor on a crash course with the prone little girl. He mastered himself. Of course he was kidding, don't look like that Scotty, you know better. "What's wrong with her?"

"I don't know!" He gesticulated, fierce. "She just - went berserk! On the tour, you know, takin' her round the engines, out of that little room... showin' how they worked. Bless her heart, poor thing yawning..."

A whisper through the uniforms busy about the charred floor and two victims caught McCoy's eye. It narrowed by reflex.

"I thought it was a great idea!" Tugging on his hair with a fist. "Then she saw the transporter room, and -"

"And?"

"She just fell apart. Fell - stopped asking questions. That caught me." The scotsman rubbed at his shirt hem. "Actually. Well, the hair on her arms may have been a bit surprising. And the -"

Conical shape of hand drawn from his face, pinched as if to show the snout. "The face. It got long."

A quirked eyebrow kept Bones' eyes bright.

"I should'a thought it." Scotty shook his head slow as jelly. "That's where it happened. The missy beamed up all wrong, must be. Keep thinking it must've been the transporter."

The doctor's head tilted to the side. He cleared his throat.

Agony blasted through every filter, every thought and layer of white noise to clap hands over their ears.

Not words. But Leonard knew who screamed.

And fell silent.

Unpremeditated murder in every line of his body, McCoy turned on an impassive second officer.

Blasted vulcan didn't hide his open hand. Didn't bother.

It dropped to his green-slushed side like a dead thing.

Cindy, at his feet, sprawled different than moments ago. More bone and hair than good, healthy muscle. She didn't move.

He did it. That no-good, hare-brained -!

"I didn't give the call to put her down, Mr. Spock!"

No need for a pulse check. Lava roared to the call, blood hot and ready.

"I presumed through lack of contrary evidence to prevent further havoc, doctor," the vulcan breezed like a Cornish milkmaid on a merry, cotton-picking journey.

"And that's just your medical opinion, is it?" Spat over a zealous grimace. "Sorry! Must have missed that memo! I'll just go pack my bags, shall I? Let my head nurse know she's got a new supervisor? Lord knows!"

Rage threw bare arms in the air, already pacing before a wide-eyed and infuriatingly expressionless Scotty. "She might even welcome it!"

Don't you dare say a word, you scottish highborn knucklehead. No-one's getting between him and the toothpick-eared cretin this time!

That black stare held every inch of back-biting, coma-inducing stubbornness the medical officer had come to withstand the past five years.

"As the ranking officer my decision was based upon reduction of risk to our crew. Had you advised differently, doctor, neutralization would be no less necessary."

It came along with a dose of something new. A brand new set of his hackles on an edge McCoy didn't know he had.

Mouth open to snap a really witty comeback and Spock did was drove him mad, every single time.

Spock's narrow, tritanium-rod spine answered McCoy with the flat nothing of vulcan couldn't-care-less attitude.

Gestures to the three officers and use of their four-man strength carried Cindy away.

He watched them go, aggrieved. "Typical."

Scotty flicked his eyes from almost gone down the hall, a few steps after his wounded man.

"It's Mr. Spock, Doctor. He's got a lot on his mind. Always does."

Bones repressed the urge to spit. Not in front of the ship's most ardent fan.

The carpet didn't deserve his wrath, besides.

"And I'm gonna make some more to think about. You'll be alright, won'tcha? Going to Sickbay?"

"Aye."

A worried smile didn't reach his eyes. "Good man."

Better than most.

He should never have let her go. Just a little girl. Those eyes...

He marched on hot feet.

And let loose a strangled yell. This wasn't the way to some comfortable guest quarters.

Spock and his cohort were heading to the brig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends and patrons.  
> A short note; increased work hours have affected my workload and drawn out the time needed to write. No fear, they are being written! It may be one chapter per week for the foreseeable future, or one per two.  
> Please enjoy, and welcome.


	23. Chapter 23

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

“A second! Wait up, damn you.”

Fit enough to keep up, damned if it didn’t waste breath. His hands shook.

His quarry strode on like some great vulcan teddy-cat. A mere glance down Spock’s overlarge nose lacked its usual photon charge.

“Indeed. Your second has passed.”

“My, oh my,” Bones seethed, “what great snark you have.”

The vulcan remained silent. The doctor’s round ears perked up.

“I've not had the time for a debrief on surface conditions yet. How's Jim?”

Spock should have learned his lesson years ago. You can’t just ignore Leonard H. McCoy. He forged on. “Eaten any more intestinal leeches? Started another intergalactic war?”

Spock rounded on him.

A step to the side kept the girl’s longhaired tail in sight, hanging over an elbow in red.

“Several of the crew unfortunately require your attention. None of whom are a member of this team.”

It took a kind of insanity to serve in the middle of space. Death, disease and disaster wrapped in a nasty number of surprises that nevertheless _kept_ surprising him.

A similar daring cupped his hand round that untouchable arm.

“Spock.” Peered eyes caught the slight tremor down a pallid cheek. “Is the Captain okay?”

In all manner of challenges, Spock never let it get to him. Those glassy depths could reflect an emotional torpedo.

“Strong as the proverbial bull.” Absolutely shark-eyed. “Is that satisfactory, Doctor?”

A particularly caustic shrug loosened his shoulders a bit.

“Y'know, I don't really care. If there's something going on between you two, I mean.” McCoy sniffed. “But keeping Command staff alive and well is part of my job description, and by all that's good I'm gonna _do it_!”

Belly-fire good and bubbling set his grin to be fierce.

Spock huffed. Quietly. It was more a cool puff of air on Leonard’s face than a real grunt.

He let a smooth tug from the arm in his grip carry the both of them down to Spock’s stern lads.

Not one for Security, sheer vulcan strength nevertheless lent an air of reverence to their Science Officer. One came to know whom to trust aboard such a small community, and Security had relied on that long-limbed storm chaser enough times to know Spock’s value in disaster-relief.

Spock smoothed down his sleeve. “A similar position to my own. Be appeased; there is nothing to tell.”

Both brows raised to McCoy’s hairline. “Bull hockey.”

“Human colloquialisms,” oh, do shudder for me, sir, “aside, the situation below has been rectified to the Captain's satisfaction. We may continue our mission once he is aboard.”

Spock gestured to open the waiting turbolift’s motion sensor perhaps more forcefully than was needed.

Its doors slid shut to contain three strapping lads, a malformed out-of-body young lady, his own thin frame and Spock’s entire vocabulary. Righteously bristling arms nudged crossed elbows with an officer whose chin pointed over everyone’s heads.

McCoy quirked his entire body, palm untucked. “And finally get to the problems up here. I'm not happy, Spock.”

“Indecisively concluded as always, Doctor.” Was that a glint of teeth between hard-line lips? Hooked ears ducked a hair in the direction of someone Leonard really wasn’t ready to see. “Do not worry about the girl.”

“I don't worry.”

Four sets of inexpressive eyes lost interest in ship alloys and lift functions as a concerted force. His palm curled back into crossed arms, back hunched against the wall.

“I _don't_.”

Spock inclined his head. “The Galileo II will fly the Captain back within a local day cycle.”

Ever merciful. McCoy strangled the cool relief trying to bank Spock’s well-deserved rousing. A glance found the vulcan looking off into a visual display. Not watching for a sure hit.

If Spock hadn’t just shanghaied Cindy away from medical help, Bones might have ventured to point out his illogical good mood. The doctor stared ahead, mulling it over. “Why not right now?” he said slowly. “I thought the situation was all 'rectified'.”

The human officer by his side shifted to another foot. McCoy became aware of their brushing shoulders. He deliberately shrugged. Exposure therapy came highly valued in most medical circles.

Spock’s nose flared. “Only upon my departure. We chose not to overextend in a return flight.”

And let the poor soul enjoy another primitive culture’s hospitality. Jim did seem to enjoy meeting foreign dignitaries, he supposed, and the Eirine had quirks enough to keep any anthropologist occupied for a few days.

“A most logical generosity,” Bones allowed. “Pity the damn transporter's been struck from the records. I could use some dedicated time in the labs, away from this planet’s little hiccups.”

His feet moved to settle his stomach as the doors slid apart. The others left first. A slower shuffle held bitter judgement for anyone stupid enough to remark on a lingering sensitivity to ship movement.

Spock waited, straight as a bean pole. The brat engaged first.

“Time better spent in transit than subject to a damaged matter stream. The Captain's logic is sound.”

Most curious. Sour grapes, Mr Spock? Leonard had to keep from rubbing his hands together as they walked. It couldn’t be too serious if he brought it up to McCoy of all people. He didn’t often get to play those two against each other.

A wondering smile blew away like a breeze. “Damaged, huh? No wonder.”

Spock paused. That look was indiscernible. “The girl.”

He hadn’t looked. Maybe he couldn’t.

No. He’d seen much worse. Fear of the unknown never stopped him before. That reluctance to set eyes on her face, understand how badly they’d lost control, it unsettled him. Didn’t sit right.

That scene, Scotty, the stench of some sort of toxic gas filtered out as soon as the air conditioning system detected it… Cindy just lying there. It was her. He knew it was her.

She could be suffering. He couldn’t leave the girl to be treated by some medical intern. And she was dangerous. He couldn’t gainsay that.

Yes, keep the fires stoked. Yes, hit the iron where it made cherry-red targets.

McCoy trusted himself to not fly off the handle. Just not with Spock in the room, watching Leonard figure all this out.

A rasp dragged his dead tone back somewhere near human. “So you think so, too?”

Honeyed, sweetened for the backhand punch. “I think, Doctor, that recent inefficiency in your department is directly responsible for an overall drop of 5% across the entire ship.”

It almost stopped Bones in his tracks. How _dare_ -

“Now, you-!”

Spock struck like a bloodless rapier. “And what of the second? Her companion?”

The doctor sputtered. “The - Teddy is probably just another scared kid, out of his wits and hurt to boot! You'll not lay a finger on him,” eyeing the open season of Spock’s currently un-poked shirt chest, “until I get to talk first.”

McCoy could only watch and wonder as lurid colour climbed up the soft skin of Spock’s throat, ear tips dark in lovely juniper. Heaven above, that heavyset brow could only be called sullen. Their emotionless robot-in-chief, self-professed anti-emote in a sulk!

Spock’s tack changed in a chunky of clumsy syllables. “Did you not – consider? The dangers of releasing the specimens? They could be anywhere.” Spock pinched the air. Expanded it to hold an invisible ball. “Any _thing_.”

“Listen to yourself!” Leonard barked. “I expect better coherency from our Science Officer, half-human or half-klingon, 'specially regarding his very own personal logs.” The grin spreading across his face felt greasy and unpleasant. “Changing your tune?”

Hate is a strong word. It didn’t quite match how powerful Bones felt at Spock retreating to Academy parade rest. Remarkable, really. He achieved it while still walking.

“Chasing one truth in the face of contrary evidence is illogical,” Spock said.

“You know what I think?”

“I believe I will imminently.”

“You're losing your touch.” McCoy tapped a noiseless rhythm on his leg. “Might need to check the planet samples for mind-altering substances. It's like a recurring space plague on this ship...”

Warning flashed all over that pointy head. “I am fine.”

“Then I'm sure I'll see you at a check-up in two hours.”

Eyes wide by perhaps a millimetre, that look bled betrayal. Creases in shirt sleeves shrank over tight arms, drawn back to hands surely bleached white.

They arrived to a short tangle of officers handling Cindy in past the door to Containment. Spock’s face looked at once bursting with speech and furiously silent.

McCoy’s skin prickled from standing by such obvious sorrow. He wrestled it down and leaned against the doorframe.

“Gotta give me something here, Spock.” The moment of rest let him check the taller man up and down, first chance since Spock flew down at Jim’s command. “I need a promise.”

Spock shuffled. He watched after the parade of security men, clearly hoping to disengage and follow. “May we discuss this more privately?”

“Feeling shy? You know I don't run show-and-tell in a physical.”

“Doctor.”

McCoy considered it. Well, he’d get the time to run a deeper set of scans than usual, might even learn something new about vulcan biology if Spock felt grateful enough. The catch was the _why_. He intended to find out.

“Okay,” he drawled out. “If I say yes, it's conditional.”

Spock halted in the midst of a step away. He didn’t look back but the line of his shoulders decreased with a tight sigh.

The doctor edged closer. He had the brief sense of coming in on wounded prey. A regular Romulan War Bird.

He spoke with a slight smile at the idea. “I'm sensing a little chink in that armour. You know, I... I've not always seen eye-to-eye with that vulcan shindig mind business, but any man of science can see it matters to you.”

He could almost see the gears in that humanoid computer’s neck grinding. Spock turned back with glacial speed. McCoy focused on the familiar arch of a raised eyebrow.

The monotone hid nothing. “Shindig, Doctor?”

Leonard waggled his fingers. “The mind joo-joo. If you believe it works, then fine. Let it work.” He jabbed the air in front of Spock’s nose. “Meditate before I see you again.”

Spock studied him. Observed with that peculiar pinch between the eyes. “Fascinating.”

“What?” McCoy didn’t mean to sound defensive.

“To hear it from, as you say, 'the horse's mouth'.” The dark gaze flickered. “Your choice of condition is acceptable.”

“Two hours. That's an order, Mr. Spock.”

“I will endeavour to achieve it,” Spock intoned. “But if I may... my health was not a priority in your pursuit of the girl.”

Years spent in a confined space together should make these conversations happen less often. Leonard loved kids, loved teaching and caring for them, could sit and listen to all manner of inane questions. That instinct usually didn’t transfer to the grown-up versions who should know better.

‘Course, Spock knew better. He just never let it sink in past skin level.

McCoy leered. “Was that supposed to be a question?”

A step closer loomed the skinny commander to block his view of the brig.

“Why are you here?”

The doctor slid his hands up his own arms. How to get this across? “Try accessing memories from two days past. Remember what you asked me then?”

Light behind his porcelain face washed the last tinge of green away. The light of knowledge. And in the small ways of his people, hints at a man Leonard was still coming to know.

A twitch of his brow. Interest. The hint of movement in his ears, a tic Jim swore Bones to secrecy on in the case of ear-wiggling being another precious modest secret. Curiosity, maybe. He didn’t see that one enough to figure it.

Skin on shallow temples drawn down, down with the jaw, the lips. Sorrow.

And for a moment. Just a minute adrenal shot of how light scatter played havoc with reflective black eyes, the pupils fine and shrinking as if facing a penlight.

Leonard pulled back. He studied his own hands. Checked the nails, no chapping or splinters, the strap of his medkit.

“...Oh. Yes.”

He couldn’t help it. A peek up sank the stone in his belly with an acrid aftertaste.

Thin lips moved as if to speak. Mouthing something, words, a passcode, could be anything coming from Spock.

In his honest medical opinion, the vulcan looked terribly disturbed.

“Maybe you'd better get on with meditating, Spock,” Bones ventured, head to the side. “Whatever happened down there's done your head in, and I want to hear all about it. Alright?”

Whispers - if that’s what they were, not everyone had radar dishes on the sides of their heads - finished with a slow blink. The vulcan stroked his chin, gaze distant.

Leonard jostled Spock’s supporting elbow to get in front of him. “Alright?”

It shouldn’t shiver his bones to take that continental shift of fathomless eyes on his person. Spock stared at him as if seeing someone else. Something else. “...Yes, Doctor.”

Alright. His toes clutched the floor through his boots. Standing upright took effort all of a sudden, his balance shot by a warm wave of relief.

It came out like that, all cute and sappy. “Call me McCoy, you...”

Half-blooded idiot. Horned moron. Point-eared… idiot.

He didn’t say any of it. Didn’t need to.

Spock took the wave-off with equanimity.

And it may have been the distraction of an officer coming up, grave-faced, clearly ready to report Cindy in her cell, or it could have been the short-lived rush of warmth playing havoc with his heart, but the doctor could have sworn to hear a barest hint of spring in their wintry Second Officer’s voice.

“McCoy.”

Bones made a toothy grin. The drawl pulled it to pieces, exaggeration heavy on his tongue.

“Spock.”

A stiff nod released them both. Spock to glance inside the cell and pass on through to the outer hall, McCoy to rush past and kneel by her side.

Blocked by the forcefield, a savage bite at his lip went ignored as he worked on the flaps of his satchel. Pounding in his ears. A twitch of his fingers shook out, no need to check his own pulse, ready to see the damage and figure out how exactly to approach fixing it. Fixing her.

It didn’t look good. Skin shouldn’t gleam like that.

A bird-like jerk of his neck near shoved his nose through the energy barrier, sharp eyes on white flecks below deep pockmarks in the skin. Burnt hair, only one unpleasant stench among the cooked flesh and a hair-raising chemical taint grew stronger. She wasn’t conscious.

He wrinkled his nose.

Less at the smell. Forget mere beauty marks, there could be nerve damage or worse.

Leonard needed in. As he stood waiting to be authenticated, precious good it did to rely on the bureaucratic nonsense insisted upon by Starfleet in a crisis, movement dragged his curt stare to the compartment main door.

The third officer in quiet conversation with Spock. As if sensing the doctor’s line of sight, the vulcan hesitated, mouth half-open.

“Why aren’t you gone already?” McCoy near snarled.

Curse whoever taught the pointy-eared half-breed that unfairly unemotional picture of sass.

Spock projected over an apologetic glance from the officer. “The Chief Medical Officer is not exempt from fraternization regulations, Doctor McCoy.”

Fraternization? With – with Cindy?

McCoy couldn’t help the jump in an eyebrow, nor in his voice. “Don’t test me.”

“Do not… believe… every spirit.”

He turned properly, tricorder in his hands. Set to basic functions, needing recalibration for the funky business of their poor guest, it bleeped just loud enough for his own ears. Leonard didn’t need the warning. It wrote all over Spock’s drawn face.

Had he been so exhausted before going down to the planet? Surely the fool slept at some point, recharged his super-batteries by staring creepily at some unfortunate soul and their family.

Now the vulcan’s hooded eyes dropped to the tricorder and he remembered Spock’s incredible sense of hearing. Cheeks blew out over Spock’s ruminating jaw. The brow drew close.

Concentrating. “But…”

Stopped. No shifts. No more micro-expressions, nothing at all. McCoy’s heart skipped a beat.

As if Spock just… ended.

He let the tricorder come to hang by its strap.

He’s no good at pretending not to react, never was, hated the thought. It kept him from psychology as a field of practice if he’d ever been keen on that sort of patient mollycoddling.

But a man can do almost anything for the right incentive.

Licked dry lips. “Test the spirits,” Bones offered.

It came out in a rush. The colour, unnatural as it was, returned to those black eyes. “1 John 4:1.” His tone, normally dry and sure to raise a man’s blood pressure, cracked. It cracked.

McCoy played a filled hypospray through long fingers. He watched it glitter. “For being so adamantly anti-human, you do your research.”

Spock straightened. The marble consistency of the science officer’s shoulders crystallized into the impossibly sharp angle McCoy now witnessed but rarely. “Further examination is necessary. I will see you at mine. My quarters. Two hours.”

Blue and black could have cut glass in the mechanical perfection of Spock’s stride from Containment.

Leonard met a similar narrow look to his own from the man by the door.

“And what am I gonna find there, Mr. Spock?”

Those words – doubts and indecision – played on through the next hour of sitting, kneeling by her still body, mangled horsehead in his lap as he whispered and stroked her puppy ears.

When the fur melted away and she blinked away frightened tears, Leonard found himself smiling.

Cindy didn’t smile much. Still, the cautious grip on his hand and questions, lots of questions, did away an old man’s insecurities.

He had a patient. One, for the time being, was more than enough for him.


	24. Chapter 24

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

The still environment of my new holdings, my home away from home, screamed despair in a voice increasingly hard to ignore.

I'm what you'd call a farm girl. The wake-up to the rooster's crow, avoid stomping in manure on my way to school, spend all my spare hours in a barn filled with sick animals type.

Silence is something I've found in rare, usually unpleasant places.

The Blade Ship, for one. Even then I had terse contact with my friends, trapped together and paraded for the Visser’s amusement.

The hum of a force field covering my cell door let me rest for a while.

Morphing is exhausting. I was exhausted. Legs crossed beneath me burned, my hands rubbing feeling into them to little effect.

I kept doing it. Knew the uses of a good massage. And it gave me something to do.

A simple room, one swivel chair and a table. I could sit on the chair. Tap restless fingers on the table. Stare at a black screen set into the wall that wouldn't activate, leaving me guessing whether it was supposed to be a television or not. I'd have watched Brady Bunch reruns if it let me focus on something else for a little while.

Rather than on the damage I'd caused, or the damage inside of me. Dr. McCoy didn't understand it, either. He’d still had plenty to say before he left, a nice fill for time and block on my upset stomach.

Nothing to eat meant nothing to linger in a nose still sweet on nasty things.

But managing it all left a buzzing mind. An unfocused mind. No books or friends, no phone, no last-minute questions without a good answer but having all the time in the world to tell Jake what I thought of them.

I knew it wasn't just to figure things out. Sitting together, watching Tobias in the rafters in turn watching a little mouse creep across the straw, it felt as comfortable to say nothing. To just sit.

If he was here, obviously I wouldn't be alone anymore. True of Rachel, too, or Ax. Even Marco.

I didn't know if I wanted the others here. I grabbed the front of my leotard and pulled it from the twinge in my heart.

I wanted Jake.

A burst of restlessness shot my feet under me and I paced. It didn't settle. A hand on each wall, each turn, edging behind the table to squeeze past.

Had to do something. Couldn't message the doctor, not again. Didn't know anyone else's numbers. If they used numbers.

I tugged at my hair. Sighed.

"Okay. We're safe. I can do this."

Because at heart, every Animorph is a little bit crazy.

See, I'd been thinking. This place - the 'brig' - could trap an Andalite. Could keep it contained. Keep me contained.

So if I morphed in here, no-one would be hurt. And if I figured out what's wrong with me, if I fixed it, well, the time wouldn't be wasted.

I might be nuts. This place might be driving me nuts.

But. But if I could control it.

Blowing air out from both nose and mouth, my eyes crossed before closing. Concentrating. Focused.

Morph. Keep them safe. Figure it out.

Every body I've inhabited, taken a part of me and controlled, had their challenges. For some the acquiring process put us in danger. For others it came after becoming that animal.

Instincts powerful enough to make muscles jump without any thought, to escape and survive with the speed to outwit a hungry predator.

I needed safe. I needed control.

Tiny hairs on my arms stood on end. A prickling heat rushed over my entire body, a light cough in reflex as sweat beaded on my upper lip. My chest made a weird flipping sensation, like my heart flip-flopped in place.

"No," I said. "No... No!"

I let go of the morph. Remembered myself. Cassie. Me!

It stopped.

Come on. A glance down caught the rough fur splitting the hairs in twos and threes. Nothing big. I flexed my fingers, watching them dance like they should. Strong fingers.

The heat dissipated like it never existed. Free of it.

Humming. A look around the doorframe caught nothing. No security guard. No visible cameras. Just the forcefield.

A real-life force field. Crazy what becomes normal, expected, in being part of Earth's secret defence force. Earth's protectors.

Part of the team. The Animorphs, so far away, still fighting, I hoped. I wished.

Of course, if Tobias was still fighting, he'd better be doing it off the spaceship. He wouldn't leave without me unless he had to, unless it meant living to fight another day. Totally alone.

I wasn't worried about him being alone.

Shaking out my fingers, sick to my teeth of thinking the same wheel of torture over again, a few steps centred the room. I could do this. I had to do this. It's just a little sick feeling. It didn't feel very good but even Rachel'd figured it out in the end. She's not the so-called 'morphing expert'.

Yeah, I had an idea what was going on. Not a complete one. And I knew the answer to it would mean trying again. So I tried again.

Breathe in. Crack.

The hairs withdrew noiselessly. In their place, imprints of arrowheads, all over. The skin of my shoulder ripped, an awful wet sound over cracks of bones and sinew.

Hold it. A thousand times, a thousand worse situations. Control.

The walls remained solid, growing taller as my legs shrunk to the width of toothpicks. I stood beneath the roof of a table. You haven't seen all of humankind until you've seen the chewing gum, dried boogers and graffiti below the hood of your average table.

My eyes, expanding, rimmed blood orange, found a focus. Tally-marks, scratched out of sight.

It made me laugh.

Heat. Prickling. The soft feathers on my head ruffled, their points burning through skin.

Morphing shouldn't hurt. I gagged. Acrid taste on my tongue, a tiny thing in my hardening lips. No. Scaly feet staggered beneath my still-shrinking bulk.

How? How could I keep control? Focusing harder, the wings, the keel and flight muscles, it flourished like fire. Muddling organs, some popping in, others twisting into new spaces.

The tips of my new wing-feathers touched floor. Hard. Heavy.

No. <Don't you dare,> I hissed.

They remained stubbornly un-owl-like.

Soon, all too soon, it finished. A great horned owl perched on cool cement and I watched through its eyes. Great vision. A newly rapid beat below my breastbone competed with a seeming never-ending restlessness.

Tail twitching, a sharp flutter brought me on top of the table. Talons hooked over its edge.

Funnily enough, being an owl felt more real than languishing in a cell as myself. And I couldn't smell the trails of patrolling guards anymore.

Feathers laid flat in cool relief. My skin prickled no more.

<But... Why?>

As I gazed throughout the cell, strangely at ease with the small room, the lights went out.

And snapped back in.

Dark, deep red. It washed over me and the walls like blood.

_Bang_!

Loud!

Pain, reeling and sliding off my table edge to the floor, I staggered.

The horned owl's small head ached. Noise. Sensitive hearing demolished by a klaxon, whirring in and out like a dream. An agonizing dream.

<Aaaaargh!> I moaned.

Thud. Thud thud thud.

In the terrible noise, my owl would've missed it. Trembling travelled up through the floor, pounding, nearby.

Boots on the ground.

Before I knew it, the forcefield, a shining light in the darkness, flicked out. Easily as a light switch.

And in its place a pale oval rushed in. A face.

Twisted, mouth scowling. Wielding the jagged end of a dracon beam in his right hand.

The owl saved my life. It pressed against the table stand. Flattened its entire body like a fluffy pancake.

Angry voices curled the plumes of my brows. Human. Aggressive.

"Where is it?!"

"Find it! Find the Bandit!"

"I heard it! It's got to be in here," said a third, followed by a fourth, a fifth. The last one didn't fit through the door. Their feet set wide across from the door, on guard. Watching for a running Andalite.

Or hey, a human girl. Because they knew.

They knew. I'm so screwed.

Their black shoes stomped all around me. I readied myself.

"She's not in here. Someone - hey! Go look down the hall!"

"The girl couldn't have escaped. She wasn't supposed to be capable -"

"Ventilation? An insect, the air ducts?"

"Sealed before shut-down."

Every stitch of clothing, the faint reflections on the floor. Each movement stood out perfectly. As if telegraphed to the perfect nocturnal hunter.

"Check under there, then join Sine 302." A pair of boot tips pointed at the table. At me. "At speed! We need to be out of here in three!"

I spread my wings. Perfect sync with the owl. They rose smoothly, wing ends morphed back into proper feathers somewhere in the midst of mind-turning stillness.

A gap between their legs. I waited, watched and tensed. Coming.

There!

The owl took off like a bullet.

Cries barely started behind me when I flared my wings, clumsily kicked the opposite wall from my cell and banked hard left.

Just missed scoring talons across a uniform shirt drenched in red. My tail feathers split from fingers, combing, grabbing.

A sharp pinch added haste to the hard flapping needed in completely motionless air. Short one feather took nothing from the cut and swoop in narrow walls.

"The Bandit!"

"Kill her! Shoot!"

Tseeeeeeeeeeeeeeew! Tseeeeeeew!

Missed!

Heat flashed across my back. I dropped to low altitude. No prickling beneath the skin. My morph was fine.

Down the hall, air silent over my curved feathers. A door. No time to stop, stomping behind and bright lines of light searing holes ahead of me. I hoped against hope and didn't slow down.

Wooosh. Startled, a curly-haired man yelled and fell backwards. He stared up from the floor as I blazed into another dark corridor.

<Sorry!> I called.

Down the hall! No-one else in sight for now. My head pulsed in time with an alarm, the siren following my flight, shoulders tight in effort to keep flapping. Keep burning energy.

Attacked by Controllers! On board the ship! An infestation, active and aggressive. They shut down the lights. The air. I hadn't noticed that.

The morphing, the creep of illness or whatever it was. I'd chosen the worst time to practice.

And I couldn't stay an owl. Couldn't keep flying, flapping like a madwoman to stay up. Had to remorph.

The doors mixed with what I remembered to be white walls. Everything red.

Emergency lights, maybe. Whatever the Yeerks did, it caused plenty of chaos.

Someone had to have noticed. They couldn't have infested the entire ship already. I needed air. Needed to get help.

Keep flying!

A branch in corridors. I flapped hard, tail brushing the carpet. Took the right turn.

No idea where it went, hoped for a break and pumped my wings so hard I feared they'd fall off.

I'm getting tired of running from aliens trying to kill me. But I wasn't about to stop and ask for a time-out.

Beak open to pant, my little heart started at an opening door. It slid apart and revealed the most brilliant set of lights I’d ever seen, owl eyes reacting too slowly to keep from crashing.

Pupils shrank, head ducked and wings thrust forward to stop. Dropped to the floor. Landed hard, legs rebounding to keep my fragile body from breaking. Light. So bright it hurt.

White light. Too visible.

Weary, I raised my wings to take off again. And paused.

Doors. They opened and shut. Duh.

If I found a button to close them or got away from the motion sensor, it could be as good a place as any.

My head turned 180 degrees to check the hall, eyes half-closed to compensate for the darkness. Which didn't work. I looked back.

What I'd forgotten peered at me from the bright lights. A guy barely older than me stood in the midst of painful brightness and blinked out over my head.

High cheekbones and curious expression, his complete lack of fear made my decision for me.

I forwent trying to fly. The man stepped from my Texas Shuffle past his feet and into the depths of what turned out to be a very small room. Irredeemably polite. My small body didn't get stomped on.

<Hey.>

His entire face went huge. Mouth, eyes, even ears.

<Hey, don't panic. I need you to close the doors,> I said. <You can get out if you want, but I need to hide. I mean, I need to be safe, and - just close the door!>

A wide tilt to his head. Orange curls glinted over that youthful face. He frowned, glanced down the hall. Lingered. "Is there an emergency - a Red Alert? I didn't hear -"

<Close! Door! NOW!>

He hit a button.

The doors closed.

I slumped. The man looked at his own hand.

Looked at me. I met it with a signature blank expression.

<Thanks. But it's not over yet.>

"Did you... Need to go somewhere? Um. Who, who are you?" he chuckled strangely.

Poor guy hadn't heard of the crazy Animorph just yet. Here's hoping I wouldn't turn into a hammerhead shark and accidentally sandpaper his legs with my bare skin.

First world problems. Animorph problems.

<Yeah! Yeah, I need to...> Need to find a way out. Off the ship? But how?

There's no hope on an infested ship. Nowhere was safe. No-one was safe. Even he could be a particularly clever little slug, playing the long game.

And I couldn't afford to lose. I set a glare on him. Studied the uniform in clear white light.

Limited time here. Should I demorph?

"You don't sound well. We could go to Sickbay...?"

Doctor McCoy. An electric field pointed every feather on end. He had no idea. No more than the basics. I had to warn him. That meant getting close enough for thought-speech.

And that meant not being an owl, too weak and helpless against an entire crew of well-meaning ignorance.

I gave the guy a once-over. <Yeah. Sickbay. Which way is that?> I asked.

His hand drifted. A lever in the wall. "Up fifteen." He grasped it. "Deck 7."

<What are you ->

Movement. My heart beat faster.

A familiar, awful taste in my beak made me gag. Right. Owls have a gag reflex. Not like horses. I shuddered away that memory below hunched shoulders. <Are we moving?>

"Yes," he shrugged, red shirt loose. "Not travelled by starship before?"

<Not this kind. We're in an elevator?>

He shot me finger-guns. Like an actual child. "Turbolift. It's how we get around the ship."

And if my spatial perception could be trusted, a hollow sense of flight in the absence of any natural uplift or movement, we were moving very, very fast. Lights skittered through narrow windows as the lift passed entire floors in single blinks.

Right. Turbolifts. I knew the ship had elevators, remembered it now with that friendly scotsman I’d so brutally terrified. He’d talked so much I hadn’t thought to ask more questions.

But I've seen spaceships. I've been inside of them, witnessed incredible living metal, laser beam weapons that could take chunks out of the moon and beings possessing power beyond any normal human on Earth.

I'm one of those beings. It's not that great.

Well, it's pretty great. But not that great.

An elevator, fast as it was, didn't faze adrenalin still curtailing to escape. For flight.

Wing muscles bunched as my head hooded over the floor, bent as if to brush the floor with my beak. Ready to flap. Ready, hopefully, for anything.

<I need to ask you something,> I said in a rush.

A smirk, head bobbing. "You can talk, miss Owl. I don't suppose you want me to take you to my leader?"

<No. I need something from you.> But first, he needed to not freak out. <And I'm not really an owl. You might want to look away for a second.>

He didn't.

Demorphing went rapidly, even for me, and soon I stood on bare human feet in my skin-tight leotard. A tension in his face may have been disgust. May have been curiosity. It didn't matter.

This is crazy. I can't do this. It's not right.

My hand wavered, outstretched. The crewman's eyes focused past them, on my face. He mouthed 'wow'.

"I need you to let me touch you," I said as if at a distance. As if someone else said it.

A frown pulled focus back to my hand. But I was already there, fingers wrapped around his collarbone, pinching at the sick taste in my mouth.

This was wrong.

This might be life-saving, and not just for me.

"Thanks," I whispered. Drawing away let him stand with the typical blankness of an acquiree. Then, I focused. Controlled the spasm of worry as change curled in my bones and grew out my hair. Did other things. I didn't think too hard about it.

"No,” he demurred. “Thank you."

WHAP!

Wall. Floor. Nothing.

Nothing.

Dull ache. Aching. Sharp pain, pressure, a vise squeezed my skull apart. Wrong. Wrong!

It hurt!

Dirt grains and unnatural fibres scrubbed my face as I screamed. My mouth opened just fine, but my head! Couldn't move!

Shoved down, soft palms crushing me, facial muscles pliable and frozen in the croaking shout crawling out of my throat.

What? What was happening? I couldn't think. It hurt.

No. No, dawning horror, trying to see past the arms and wriggling uselessly against the horribly slick thing at my ear.

Yeerk! Inside my ear!

"NO!"

But a familiar furious glee in those empty eyes came close enough to count the bloodshot veins.

I could see his face just fine. It squashed against my own. Held down, wrists in one hand, ripping agony in his grip on my hair.

He’d hit me! My jaw ached from hitting the turbolift wall. And now -

And now...

Just as it had before so I felt again. It started so much faster than before. Than Aftran.

My fingertips twitched. I didn't want them to. Fists relaxed and lay like dead things. It travelled up to shoulders, the push away collapsed beneath the Controller's weight.

I felt every moment it stole another patch of me away. I saw it happen. And when the Controller, now bereft of his slug, fell away, my last rush to seize control fired iced nerves and caught just the tiniest slip of slimy slug between untrimmed nails.

I dug them in. The Yeerk's slick body shook like a living thing in my grip.

And slipped away.

My hand fell to the floor.

No. This couldn't be happening!

The pain, distant now, covered panic by flooding fully dawned horror past my prone body. Past the flesh, the movement foreign to me, not me, back to a place where I watched and cried out unseen.

It brought a malevolent chuckle to the bars of my cage.

My eyes flicked up to the doors. Focused on the panel. The Yeerk saw the numbers ticking by, slowed, gathered a film of comprehension.

<First floor. Andalite Bandits and other lost causes. Oh, a promotion thrown in for the low, low price of one stupid little girl.>

<No,> I whispered. <No.>

<Oh, yes,> it replied. <Now to get rid of the trash...>

It turned my head. Neck muscles complained to a new master.

The crewman lay prone just metres away. His eyes met mine and I felt my lip curl. Felt the changes come, helpless to stop it.

<If only I had more time! And a bit of privacy,> the Yeerk grumbled. <Such marvellous tools at my disposal! But perhaps the simplest - yes, and no evidence.>

It urged my limbs up to crawl. Hands and knees stiff, a spasm here and there smoothed in ten unending seconds until my body prowled up to just inches away. My breath puffed between gritted teeth, his deep blue eyes dilated to utter black.

I couldn't stop myself. The Yeerk dug under the man's shirt hem. Found a skin-warmed rounded object and tore it away on a small rip of cloth.

It coveted the item, hugging it to my chest. I saw what it wanted. I tried to say something, but it's like my mouth had nothing connecting it to me.

<Don't! Don't hurt him! You can't do that!>

I hated it. Hated myself for begging. Hated the Yeerk.

<Shut up,> it said. Calm. Very calm. <These 'phasers'... Quite efficient. Unfortunately so.>

"Goodbye, Mr. Tatum," someone else said with my voice.

It pointed the device.

My finger depressed the button by a matter of millimetres. My heart jumped on its own. Acid on my tongue.

Swish.

Cool air on flushed cheeks.

My neck swivelled so fast I had trouble keeping visual track.

Black pant legs, striding in, at my face. A sallow face hooked down to swoop, a blue-tinged avenging angel, on the man who still hadn't moved but to gape at his own death.

The poor man’s face shrieked in soundless agony. Spock’s hand gripped the junction of neck and shoulder, tensed as if holding in what I knew to be an iron grip. The Yeerk let me see it, wanting itself, I sensed, to understand.

Spock stared at me. The alien man.

The Yeerk recognised Spock. It almost spat at him, "What are you doing, Herun 332?"

"Saving your skin, ingrate," Spock, the Controller, rumbled. His voice twanged deep with some barely suppressed emotion. He released Tatum, the man's eyes shut as if asleep. My companion in devastation lay still.

They had him. And everything I knew, all of our secrets, now belonged to the Yeerks.

Despair muffled the clipped words. It didn’t drown them out.

"What," the Yeerk sputtered, "I don't -"

"Even morphed into the ensign, there's a time limit, you fool!" Spock raised his voice. "Acting as Tatum means remaining on-site for longer than two hours. Your deception would fail, our intrusion detected!"

My Yeerk hissed, "You don't have the authority to stop me!"

"Oh," a grin split those stern lips like something out of a nightmare, "but I do. Better yet - I have a solution for this little problem. And all you have to do is follow orders."


	25. Chapter 25

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

"Tea, Doctor?"

"Hmm?"

Reports, reports, reports. Entire PADDs filled to capacity.

Crew physical results, updates to standard medical procedure, required reading for next annual and his own requisition forms.

Waiting for signatures. A scrub down his chin caught stubble against his palms.

A beckon from past the desk raised Leonard's chin from his chest. One of the younger practicing residents waited, half of her body ducked inside. He winced.

"Oh, coffee, please." He stretched. "Hold the sugar."

Sounds of the connecting medical ward travelled through an open gap left by the young lady. Soft voices by his office door drew a short puff from his nose as Leonard noted the absence of any highfalutin first officers.

The latest PADD blinked a tardy 5803.72.

2 percent off-mark. Peculiar.

The swivel chair groaned. His femur complained louder.

A swift pace through and out of his office scattered two nurses to the winds from their little talk-fest. McCoy took the moment to stare around his Sickbay.

Soft multi-coloured lights to both relax the eyes and stimulate the bedridden mind glowed by bedsides of their most recent unfortunates. Folded linen waited for change-over in ten minutes, two lovely individuals from Maintenance of the feminine persuasion discussing recent events with his head nurse.

A tidy set-up and generally pleasant place to recuperate if he did say so himself.

Rainclouds to a most surely sunny day, five surgeries layered on top of everything else. Gossip ran thick as syrup on days like this. Kept below regulation levels for noise but not quite low enough for propriety's sake.

It increased and multiplied. Like mold. Or an aggressive bacteria.

A sweet smile met Leonard's imperious look with a most welcome mug of replicated brew. He took it automatically.

Dogsbody of the day by way of Sickbay’s communal chores chart, a Ms. Huerta bobbed in place. Thick eyelashes masked a gaze flickering between his badge and the ground.

"Thank you." He took a sip.

"Of course, sir."

Bitter and so sweet on growing tension by his ears. McCoy spared a thumb to massage the area, scowling.

The young lady didn't leave. Weight shifted to one side transferred his ire into a heel grind. "Is there anything else?" McCoy finally asked.

She motioned back to his office. "Doctor, may we speak for a moment?"

He squinted, curious despite the weariness starting to clip his better side's wings. Huerta bounced on her toes and glanced at a time display on the wall.

Agitated, perhaps. She seemed restless.

Leonard determined a long time ago that no medical service ran as it should without a strictly human head on top of things. He never ignored that small voice telling him when to act from a spot of empathy to his fellow man.

Ms. Huerta deserved that compassion as much as the next red-blooded sapient being.

His nod and gentle touch on the young lady's back moved their chat along.

Gustily breathed at the familiar ensemble of work desk and little else, Leonard arranged a walk-happy posterior to lean back on his desk.

Mug raised to his lips, he observed quiet fidgeting much closer to the closed door.

"Go on," he urged.

"Um... the time slot for the Commander began two minutes ago," she began with a deep breath, "and personnel have reported weapons fire belowdecks."

Coffee spluttered searing droplets down his chin. It cooled as he struggled to speak. "Weap - weapons fire?!"

Huerta rushed to placate. "False reports! No injuries and no evidence of any wrongdoing. It may not even be true."

"Why - where's Security?" Mind racing, Leonard left the mug on a nearby shelf, eyes elsewhere. "Who made the report? Damn it," he wheeled on the startled intern, "Nurse Chapel?"

"Sir!" Tanned cheeks a shade darker, the intern bowed as if weighed beneath his questions. "Doctor, there wasn't any weapons fire, it's not true!"

"Then why waste breath tellin' me fibs?" Leonard near bellowed.

"I’m not -"

"Ms. Huerta," he growled.

Titanic effort in fingers strangled white brought the crewman’s nerves under control. She stood tall, hands tucked swiftly behind her back.

"Mr. Spock asked me to relay those false reports and to request his examination be done in his -"

"His personal quarters." McCoy threw his hands in the air. Let them fall to his hips where they gripped reliably solid bone.

False reports of weapons fire, from Spock? No injuries, apparently, though he'd make sure of that particular once Leonard dealt with the recalcitrant vulcan. Or better yet, send a runner and hear the details for himself.

Why on God's good Earth would Spock care about informing him, of all people? What's gotten under his skin?

"Thank you, Ms. Huerta. You're dismissed."

It took very little time to collect the pre-packed kit necessary aboard a ship of Sickbay-wary idiots.

See Commander Spock in his quarters, Bones. Make a house-call when coming round to a real examination table and a trained team of professionals on a five-minute stroll from anywhere on the ship became just too much bother, Bones.

Waste his time, see if McCoy'd keep that particular nausea-inducing hypospray in his office and out of his hands when he finally crossed that cursed threshold. See what happens.

He nodded to M'Benga. Scooped up his personal PADD to tuck under an arm, generally annoyed at the world. Remembered to task the spare lad of the day through to ‘belowdecks’ in search of real injuries.

Leonard spared the barest smile to a stiff-lipped Ms. Huerta on his way out.

The press of trouser legs clung hot against his calves.

A spirited pace to the threshold of their ailing first officer passed crew members few and far between. Despite supposedly controlled atmosphere he could have sworn to sweat gathering in deep-set frown lines.

A pause before Spock's door gave opportunity to mop a shoulder sleeve past his brow.

McCoy entered to a pleasant chime and his own strangled grunt.

For once in his thoroughly occupied career Leonard wished for longer on-duty sleeves. Already ill at heart with the day's complications, pursed lips met deep gravity by way of his best scowl yet.

"Mr. Spock, It always surprises me how comfortable space travel has become and how far you like to push yourself away from such reasonable thinking."

Reclined on crossed legs, Spock deigned to open his eyes. "Hello, Doctor."

"Yeah, yeah."

Sinking to perch on a knee somewhat near the obnoxiously tall officer's level produced one heck of a heartfelt groan.

Spock had chosen to meditate in the exact middle of the room. Thankful for small mercies, a note for the space to move about his centrally-located examinee lightened Leonard's face by a nostril hair. "Save it."

Mild as milk through the initial scan and blinking into a small penlight thrust dangerously close to his retinas, Spock held his pose. It looked remarkably uncomfortable.

The doctor chewed on the inside of his cheek.

That unsettling set of tourmalines made for Spock's sole movement throughout. They twitched. Up at McCoy. To his forehead. To the door. Past his shoulder, at the walls or his art or whatever kept Spock occupied on his own.

McCoy stopped.

Spock's gaze fled as if startled. He seemed to like a spot just over the doctor's shoulder.

Abnormality. A tap at the side of his tricorder held in opposite hand marked the spot. He peered at it. Resisted the urge to shake it.

A hum didn't seem quite momentous enough. He cleared his throat loudly instead.

"Is there a problem?" the vulcan asked at half his normal volume.

"Yeah," Leonard levelled tone the same, second knee grounded to rest back on his haunches. "Spock. I hate to be the one to tell you this..."

"I find your lack of sincerity most disturbing, Dr. McCoy."

A glare shed that bare haze of concern before properly expressed _honesty_.

"My apologies Mr. Spock for deploying some airbrakes! Now I'm sorry," and somehow it remained true, blast that deliberate inexpression on his incorrigible associate's slanted face, "but there's some bad news, and it's not pretty."

"Information does not include the sentimental aspect so treasured by humans, Doctor. I do not require this 'news' to appear attractive."

"Spock! Can you just shut up?" McCoy ripped into a coarse cough. He glared through air sweltering a faint shade of orange, nose buried in the crook of his arm for courtesy's sake.

Spock opened his mouth. And closed it.

Glancing again at some painting or mystical cultural object for whatever granted some sense of comfort, the officer instead collected his hands together to make an arch over his lap.

Bones huffed.

"Alright. Look, we should get to Sickbay. I need some better analysis of your central cortex. Then, maybe... Well."

The equivalent of dawning horror drew an eyebrow to somewhat below the exact hairline. Not exactly shocked but certainly curious, his patient leaned in.

McCoy leaned back.

Tricorder clutched to his belly, knuckles white for a periodically clenched grip, his half-sneer took some of that reaction to a place he knew how to deal with.

"Doctor." A whisper, barely a breath of air just caught in both sound and those immediately expressive eyes. "Why do we test the spirits?"

The spirits? This again?

Quirked tilt of his head brought Leonard into coveted private space, hand scanner active to record what he feared related in symptoms. "Never struck me as supersti-"

A grip seized his wrist. A grip so cold as to burn the life straight out of a man.

Spock's hooked nose curved over his captive arm. The vulcan rearranged his fingers in a pale biological cuff.

"If you please, Serat 4893," said Mr. Spock.

Intense stare played off-target, more alerts than fractured memories dragged Leonard's breath in stops and starts.

A quick inhale thickened to spin the room corners.

McCoy twisted his entire arm.

An easing away from Spock turned to a scramble. Had to keep some distance. Some safety. Privacy!

But it weren't those worn-out leggings of a dark mirror and misplaced trust to drive talons straight into neck muscle.

Warm weight pressed against his back.

Another's hand gripped McCoy from behind like it wanted to strangle him. Thin fingers hunted to ferocity. Hungry for his cranial nerve.

Trapezius and platysma muscle flexed to his loud shout.

A grunt overhead went uncared-for.

Except for the drop of that second hand. It went swift as the release of his wrist.

Blinding grey mist fuzzed between a mind to use that hypospray and the more dominant thrill of terror. It blew aside so harshly Bones found himself on foot and charging the door.

Let go. Released and not on the floor, drooling like a vegetable.

Arms free and pumping, the doctor ignored blasted curiosity and ran straight into the sliding door.

He bounced. McCoy cursed past his whingeing nose. Waved a hand over the doorframe and slapped the electric eye. Malfunctioning?

No. Had to be deliberate.

Locked in.

Trapped.

Tender skin of his wrists throbbed. Swallowing past a knot in his throat steadied enough to turn and face the danger.

Blessed Spock, he'd gone mad. Attacked his own CMO!

On the other hand, there stood his brain-afflicted patient.

Not approaching with grabbing hands. Not producing a weapon. A harmless prime assault suspect.

Spock loomed over a dark shape on the floor.

"Computer."

Voice dry as the oppressive atmosphere of his private quarters, the vulcan tucked viper-quick hands behind his back. "Lights to 80%. Doctor."

Smacking lips didn't quite wet them enough to speak. Still braced, Leonard barely nodded.

Lights increased to banish the shadows in corners. Spock's properly clear-shaven face and the very youthful being at his feet almost drew the doctor in.

Almost.

"Dr. McCoy."

If that familiar dull tone marked Spock's tendency for sarcasm, this certainly made it up there for the worst possible times to show off his human side. "Your patient."

Of course Leonard couldn't help peeking.

Human. African-American. Yes, young as he'd thought. Black curls and a set of Starfleet regs billowed at hem and arms, almost drawn tight across the chest.

McCoy hit the carpet. He had to be sure.

Pulse. Her head twisted to the side. A soft nudge rearranged it to lie straight from her shoulders. Airways. Hands cold, absent-mindedly rubbed between his own. Pupillary response growing stronger. Peeling the eyelids back woke a metallic taste on the back of his tongue.

His thumb wiped the small drop of blood from her cheek where she'd first hit the ground.

Alive. Enough to be sure. Spock hadn't accidentally killed their Cindy.

A heartfelt glare met Mr. Level-and-Collected.

"Are you out of your god-forsaken mind, you half-breed lunatic?!"

Spock's long finger stroked down that sharp chin. "An unfortunate and necessary deception." The vulcan stepped down to rest a hand on Cindy's side. "Please begin your scan. The result should imitate my own."

For once in his life, Leonard McCoy burst with enough questions to shut his mouth.

Imitate his own. That's good as a confession.

Hadn't he experienced plenty mind-altered aliens across their galaxy? Hadn't he allowed a good amount of foolishness out of sheer bloody-minded determination to be the bigger man?

He touched his wrist. Letting go to pick up his forgotten tricorder loosed a sweaty strand of hair to tickle his nose. Rubbing it away passed momentary darkness over heated eyes.

Blowing his lips out, Leonard began. On-screen data sank the line of his shoulders.

Spock was right. Localized to the brain. Actually moving if the readings could be trusted. Some form of tumour, alien to the body in genetic makeup.

Another sick patient. But how?

"Can't be right. Tumours aren't contagious." Bones tuned the frequency over lobes of brain matter specific to patient zero, compensating for lower levels of activity.

"No tumour, as further examination," his eyes almost twinkled, "will prove. Cindy and myself are now living examples of the threat she has fought so hard to destroy."

"You mean... No. Not here." Aghast and fascinated in one breath. "The Yeerks are on the Enterprise?"

"Do keep up, Doctor. Infestation is now inevitable."

"So we're doomed." He let the tricorder fall on his lap. Gazing down let the minute flare of the girl's nostrils be proof of her still being alive. Despite everything she kept breathing. Even a parasitic mollusc tapped into the spinal column keeping the body mobile but totally out of control didn't eliminate that basic function.

"Indeed not. I would not have expected such fatalism in one so illogical."

"I've heard that realism is a major quotient for intelligence," McCoy said.

"Thus my concern."

Hackles bristling, that stuffy not-smiling face might have met a good fist if not for a whimper.

Most fortunate for his knuckles, loud stirring from the unconscious Cindy prompted everything else to sit down somewhere else.

McCoy took hold of her shoulders. She moved to his touch, aware perhaps but blinking from a deep reverie.

Spock seized her head.

Leonard swatted the yellowed hands. The vulcan remained latched to her temples.

"Spock! Let go of my patient!"

Spock enunciated quite firmly. "No."

Cindy's neck tensed. She wavered uneasily in the vulcan's terrific grip, rolling shoulders against carpet. And she opened her mouth to yell.

McCoy swung an open hand. It slapped sleeve to a disappointingly soft clap.

"Desist, Doctor. I am not harming Cindy," Spock said. "I am removing the tumour."

This did not detract from the urge to remove Spock.

Lips moving, those spidery metacarpals moved in a way he'd never seen before. Stroking. Moving, tips following invisible tracks across her awakening skull. Awful familiar tracks.

Nerve endings.

Leonard forced himself down from another blow. No telling what disrupting a telepathic touch on the nervous system might do, separated by even a millimetre of enraged medical attention.

Spock's hands ran down nerve highways as if he could see them above the skin. A low mutter seemed at odds with the intense, almost possessive hunch over Cindy.

She jerked.

Almost dislodged, Spock's left hand tensed so visibly McCoy's stomach twisted. He knew the strength behind that grip.

No matter how the girl yanked, she'd never get away.

Cindy's yell transformed into grunts. Shouts.

" _Cullem fallat! CULLEM FALLAT_!"

"Peace. My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts." Spock let out a small sound. It may have been a whine. "We are one."

Sick, Leonard could only watch.

It took the space of wondering if he should find a receptacle in Spock's vulcan lute to relieve the nausea, gripping the loose skin of his throat, to see it.

A shimmer. A tiny glimmer of light. Wriggling.

It emerged from Cindy's ear and in no time at all dropped past the lobe.

Spock released the girl's face and sat back against propped arms. Face drawn, the vulcan stared with as much revulsion as Bones'd ever seen.

McCoy didn't blame him.

Perhaps an inch long and the most putrid shade of sewage green to be bestowed on organic life. Classic gastropodal movement, perhaps less so for four proto-flippers waving in the air.

Focused on the little thing, McCoy actually crawled back from raised facial palps.

The blunt head waved in his direction. He had the unsettling feeling it knew he was there.

Yeerk. His jaw settled to duracrete as a fist formed just as hard.

As it writhed a brief gesture let in on Spock's much paled face. The officer beckoned. He pointed to a nearby desk. McCoy saw a glass vial filled with clear fluid sitting on its surface.

He raised an eyebrow at Spock. "Water?"

Spock pursed his lips. "Please collect the specimen. I am presently... unable."

McCoy straightened his shoulders after a moment. A real medical man, no bodily fluid deterred Leonard H. McCoy.

Glass cooled his fingers, fluid dribbled on carpet in an unsteady crouch by Cindy's head.

Spock caught a glance his way. Still shaken, the vulcan had no trouble dragging her back from the slow parasite.

It felt exactly as it looked. The rough texture below yellowish mucus reminded him uncomfortably of palpating a tongue. Slippery and surprisingly muscular despite its small size, the dastardly thing plopped into the vial.

He finally allowed himself to sigh. It echoed in the First Officer now reposed on criss-crossed legs.

Leonard wiped his fingers on the ground. He kept doing it.

"Spock. Mind explaining what the hell you just did?" Hoarse as if he'd been the one screaming. The sound of his voice clued McCoy into Cindy, shaking behind closed eyes.

"Revealing the origin of the 'spirits'. This one," cool glance at the vial, "I have proven malicious."

"No kidding. She pinched me." McCoy grabbed at the sore points between his neck and shoulder. "A _nerve_ pinch?"

“An attempt.” Glee bloomed life in his companion’s hollowed cheeks. Not a smile. Just bunching musculature. Spock’s gaze fell on Leonard’s massaging fingers. “I assume you are convinced of the danger?”

“Please don’t tell me this was your idea, because I’m not in the mood for any hare-brained antics,” the doctor growled. “Spock. She tried to nerve pinch me.”

“Not she. _He_ did. Serat 4893.”

“Oh, my mistake. Mr. Serat four-eighty-whatever tried to nerve pinch me. Thanks for clarifyin’.”

McCoy dared the next words out of Spock’s mouth to be anything close to gratification.

A weak gasp of air. His eyes shot to Cindy.

She sat up. Ran pink nails down her ear, every ridge and fold searched between thumb and forefinger. As he watched, already up and crabwalking to her side, the girl turned drastically pale.

“Gone. It’s gone. It’s _gone_.”

Girlish lips split into the widest grin their young charge ever made onboard the Enterprise. She laughed.

McCoy accepted the brief hug, arms akimbo, chuckling himself. Not precisely happy, he thought, smile wider from Spock’s sway before Cindy’s launch around his thin frame.

But a compulsive check to his pulse confirmed the lack of pounding in his ears. They were okay. Cindy, apparently another trouble magnet, alive and free.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revelations. Further to come.  
> Are you ready?


	26. Chapter 26

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

Cassie here.

A strong shiver belied the shimmer of the desert kept in Spock's room. My arms wrapped around me as I listened to my new friends and couldn't keep from smiling. Shivering and grinning like a fool.

Spock and Dr. McCoy moved as they talked. A white sheet tied over the Yeerk's new prison jar shoved none-too-gently into a hidden wall closet. Moist carpet rubbed out by the doctor's boot, his constant glances either keeping me involved or worried about something.

He didn't know Yeerks. I was free. Free.

So I nodded each time and hugged myself tighter.

Mr. Spock borrowed the blocky tech from his friend's waist, satchel holding them both still for a moment. The doctor strung the strap tight and glared.

Spock didn't look up, serious as ever. "If my presence has led to betterment of our position, we will all owe you our gratitude, Doctor."

"Me?" Dr. McCoy tugged on his satchel.

"Herun 332 would not have indulged idle curiosity without outside pressure." Spock released it. The doctor didn't go far. "As Chief Medical Officer, he risked suspicion by disobeying your order."

A huff, grim eyes meeting mine. "But all I did was send you to bed."

I smiled back.

Spock paused over the loose bag left on the floor, materials in-hand.

"No-one's ever taken back control without losing the Yeerk first. At least, none I've ever met, not even the Andalites," I said.

Infested and free. That's a knot wrapped up in an enigma.

Spock nodded to me. "Indeed. My attempts were futile."

McCoy rubbed dry hands. "So, what happened?"

"Herun allowed what he saw to be simple subroutine within a captive mind. He thus engaged in a battlefield equipped to my own strengths." Bag sorted to satisfaction, he hooked it over a shoulder. "Meditation loosed the gates."

"No, a simple subroutine? The fool." The doctor tapped his noggin. "Having a motherboard saved the day?"

Spock breathed smugness. "I can only assume it a most fortunate coincidence.”

The wise nod from our doctor friend piqued my curiosity.

"Meditation?"

"He's a Vulcan." Dr. McCoy accepted a handheld device I unfortunately recognised. It must have a safety mode on, the button depressed as he tucked it away. "It's how their complete lack of emotion works without collapsing 'round his pointy ears."

Spock raised himself to another barely discernible centimetre.

"I do not require respite nor sustenance for some time through meditative spells. In this circumstance my greater mental powers, restrained by physical barriers of the parasitic organism, were mistakenly released by my captor," he said.

"Huh?" I said eloquently.

The doctor leaned over my spot on the floor. "Spock can go for weeks without eating or sleeping and he's bragging about the abacus in his head kicking that thing in its slimy tuchus."

"Oh."

McCoy winked. "He likes to use big words."

"And you did the same thing for me?" My mind raced. "Can you do it for anyone?"

"In theory. Yes." Spock quirked his head, eyes flashing beneath a high brow. "My attempt on Serat 4893 succeeded beyond my best hopes."

"Spock," Dr. McCoy snapped, "you let it attack me! Are you saying that psychic brain surgery on Cindy was experimental?!"

I stretched out a hand and climbed to my feet. Their pacing about laden by stuffed bags challenged the need to sit still and enjoy having my own body back again.

"He got the slug out of my head," I said. Forced to normal voice levels, a glance at the door, I locked Spock's gaze on mine. "I'll never repay you for that."

The officer's eyes wandered away. "Your gratitude is unnecessary. And Doctor, no permanent damage was necessary to remove it."

"It wasn't your call to make!" McCoy said immediately.

"Permanent damage?" I wondered. As in brain damage?

"None, Cindy. You have my word," Spock said. His tone left no room for argument.

"So... impermanent damage?" I persisted.

Those flexible eyebrows, the most mobile part of Spock's face, drew together in very human irritation.

I pushed a little harder. "Am I gonna lose any motor skills? Forget how to play the piano?"

"Muscle memory should suffice. Have you been practicing?"

"I don't actually play," I shrugged. "Just asking."

Spock almost leered.

"Why would you ask a question not requiring an answer?" he said as if to himself. He actually considered his own question. "I believe one of our objectives to be complete, Doctor."

"Great,” came from near the hidden wall closet.

My long look at hidden spot matched the shadow over his eyes.

Serat, Mr. Spock said. Numbers I didn't remember. The Yeerk hadn't told me his name.

"...And what's that, Mr. Spock?" I asked.

"Come on, don't give in! He's just wanting for attention."

"That our guests," Spock talked over his friend, "are indeed of terrestrial origin. This could not be overlooked by any sapient observer."

"It's just curiosity, asking stuff we don't need to know," I said. "I don't think people'd get out much if they didn't care about seeing a brand new sunset every day, no matter how many times they've seen it before."

Mr. Spock's eyebrows flew up, lips pursed.

McCoy waited a moment.

"Why Spock, I believe this is a first," he drawled. "You're speechless!"

"Merely appreciative, Doctor. One does not interrupt aptitude in the very young for fear of discouragement."

McCoy's level gaze lasered across and pinned me to the spot. I looked at Mr. Spock instead.

His arms crossed over his chest, chin down. He seemed to contemplate something.

“Now,” the doctor said. "We need a strategy to clear off the Enterprise."

"Clear off?" I asked.

"Y'know." A clear slice line across the neck with his thumb. Spock near-frowned at being used as a test dummy. "Get rid of 'em. Clear the ship up."

"To escape," the Vulcan added.

"Now how's escaping going to help anyone?" Dr. McCoy whipped back. "We've got no idea of the long-term effects on a host body with one of those slugs snug inside!"

"It is inevitable, Doctor. I have access to the mind of a highly-ranked Yeerk among those already present and have seen their plans." His mouth twisted perhaps a centimetre. "Your presence will only bring focused retribution upon any resistance measures."

I fidgeted, stepping closer to the squeak of someone else's boots.

"But you can free people, Mr. Spock. Can't you?"

Spock opened his mouth.

"What do you mean, 'focused retribution?'" The doctor looked mutinous.

"Sounds like you're already thinking about resisting," I said, the flutter in my stomach somewhere between excited and anxious.

"And - wait." McCoy's gaze grew intense. "Access to Herun? Spock, are you in contact with it? Right now?"

An inclined head.

Cold stole up my toes. "What's it saying?"

The officer spoke after a few moments. He considered each word.

"It does not have contact with my mind any longer. I have, in effect, datamined Herun for his every memory, every thought. He is not conscious, nor is he aware. I have disabled his every function."

Oh. That sounded safer. I nodded, thinking.

McCoy’s drawl thickened breathy horror. "You're controlling its mind?"

That pale yellowed skin over Mr. Spock’s temples fluttered. "It is a necessity."

Dr. McCoy swore.

Tall beside the doctor who already stood about two heads above me, Spock somehow managed to shrink within himself.

"Trust me. Yeerks don't care about free will." Venom wrung the sleeves of my stolen shirt. "They don't pity their victims."

Most of them don't. I nearly tore the loose material apart.

But not all of them.

"We're not Yeerks. So I'm glad it's under control but Mr. Spock, I hope you're not going to hold him in there forever."

A rough edge played to McCoy’s haggard face. “What do we do now?”

\--

"Damned unnatural way to... Why's it so dark?"

Heavy tread stopped to a gasp. The ruffle of material in-hand shouted across collective silence.

"Computer?"

" _Transporter Room 3 classed Inactive. Evacuate premises. Danger_!"

"Danger?" Heels slid more than clicked to my harsh whisper. Quieter steps shuffled as if over cracked glass.

Cooled to just above freezing point, a monotone voice spoke above the whispers. "Computer, commence manual override. Acknowledge."

" _Working_."

"Activate all essential functions in Transporter Room 3. This is Commander Spock, science officer. Override sequence Spock-2-2-3."

Breathing humid in the pitch of space followed our companion's order.

Impatient fidgeting in those milliseconds of waiting. Eyes wide, ears strained to the starkly feminine computer, we could have been staring each other in the face and not known it.

" _Voice and code Spock-2-2-3 verified and correct_."

Above colour blooming red and grey, full figures waited by a newly bright rectangle of the outside corridor. Myself, swiftly becoming the smallest, ducked to an alcove out of direct sight.

The computer paused. " _Override sequence complete and engaged_."

"Seal Transporter Room 3."

Whoooosh.

The door finally slid shut.

A no longer silhouetted Dr. McCoy rounded on his tall crewmate. Rubbing his knee, the older man made the most of a pained grimace.

"I'm not going down there, Spock. You can go. I'll use that Serat fella, make a cure. You know I'm most useful on the Enterprise."

"Doctor, I am the only possible choice. We have discussed this." The Vulcan let irritation bleed across repetition.

Air drier than the stuff recycled through the vents practically crackled the back of my throat. I tried not to sniff the air.

The human brain didn't understand. It knew blood. Knew raw meat. Knew better things, things like Dr. McCoy's porridge and melted cheese on nachos.

It didn't have the hyper-developed grey matter to decipher that lingering stench. But I had a good idea why my skin crawled to be in here. The memory of a hundred Hork-Bajir Controllers brought down by my wolf burned that exact smell into my memory.

I didn't need to understand it. Wolves can smell fear.

Call it a hunch.

"D'you think hanging around down there will be useful -"

"We discussed -"

"No, the fight's up here! I ain't running away when there's people need helping." McCoy jabbed at the ceiling. Spock's face narrowed.

Demorphed from the unfortunate Mr. Tatum, saliva pooled on my tongue as I peeked around the compartment subsection edge. Regulation garb pooled at my elbow. I could have been at a slumber party in these comfy pajamas.

My light frown met his.

The vulcan crossed to the darkened console. Stride refreshingly secure, a slight curl of his finger brought me wandering to his side. I slapped the console support to keep from tripping in overlarge boots.

The outer edge of his well-defined small finger brushed my wrist. Spock pulled my sleeve to cover exposed skin.

I stared at him.

The science officer raised full sail in his neck and avoided Dr. McCoy's large blue glare. "Your patient," he said, "is standing right here, Doctor."

Light as a butterfly. Neither human avoided cringing.

A rounded chamber marked by silvery spots on the floor stood opposite the console. Now lit and engaged to low power levels, some inner glow cast the doctor's studied gaze in a less comforting light.

His deliberate grip under my arm escorted me to the chamber steps. More sour than I'd ever seen him, Dr. McCoy reclined to sit by my side.

McCoy growled. "Not over, Spock."

Spock maintained grace through a grunt.

"I'd sooner operate on myself than let those pincers at my brain. Don't worry, little lady, I'll make sure he didn't cut anything important."

"A bold statement from your department, 'Sawbones'," the Vulcan said evenly.

I piped up. "It's okay. I'm kind of used to losing organs. It's no biggie."

Explosive, McCoy's huff grew in power every time he used it.

Complete silence spoke for Spock.

My hands made a complicated mess of calm-down gestures. Two bony fingers nabbed a wrist to find the pulse. "Morphing pops them in and out," I told Dr. McCoy more quietly. "It's gross, but... well. I guess you never get used to it."

Rough skin left my hand and encircled my ear. I winced from the penlight in his off-grip.

"What I mean," I stressed, "is I'm not worried about a lobotomy."

He turned my chin with his thumb.

Close enough to see stubble, distressingly close. The salty crush of deep ocean eyes held back absolutely nothing, nothing of wrinkled trenches around his mouth or crinkled crows' feet.

"Hold still for a sec, darlin'."

It felt wrong to sigh. I watched work-loose hair blow back from it.

Rubbing my fingers together, I tucked them into the crooks of my knees. Spock walked among machines and buttons beyond us, pulling levers to the slight sounds of their space-age technology. Bleeps and bips, cranking like the thing sailors pulled on the Titanic to make it go faster.

The technical term. And our plan would probably prove just as successful.

At least I'd face death in familiar skin.

_Whiiiiiiiirrr_.

"Explain how this works again?" Nodding to the nearby pad, I eyed the little salt-shaker device pass by. Circling my ear, he ran it in gentle loop-de-loops to a rhythmic buzz.

It set my teeth on edge.

Dr. McCoy shook his head, squinting at the doodad. "Don't wanna know."

Mr. Spock gave me a significant look.

Frissions of nervous energy coursed down my arms. I stood and staggered up the steps. McCoy came with me, staring down at his blocky scanning device.

"Aren't you supposed to make me curious?" I wrinkled my nose. "Like, educated?"

"I'm doing you a favour," the doctor muttered. He tugged a little at my arm. "So please, shut up. No offense."

Sharp flash of light.

Bang!

Metal clattered on metal, my sidestep just missing stepping on one of three thrown to our feet. They skidded, starry and bright. Just like the brooches on Starfleet uniforms.

McCoy's stare transferred to them. His frown began to wake into outright fury.

My knees buckled over heavy bags tossed straight into them.

"Beginning dematerialisation," said Spock.

Dr. McCoy's outrage met my idiotic smile.

"De-what? That doesn’t sound good!"

"SPOCK."

_Whiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrr_.

\--

Eyes open.

Black so dark to spin blue and green in kaleidoscopic patterns, rapid blinking helped absolutely zip. I couldn't see.

Then hit pungency to make a fly morph swoon.

Fruity. Necrotic. Wet and juicy plant material, the green so strong I could taste it in the air. A mild breeze blew against my face and my tongue flopped out to pant.

Smells! Wonderful!

Without seeing one leaf, I knew we were in a jungle. Cold sucking pressure on my boots confirmed it. A try to lift a step forward nearly pulled the leather from my foot.

"CRAWFORD!"

Wheeling to my right met a scrabble over my nose. I yelped.

It transferred to my collar. Yanked me closer.

Mr. Hopefully-still-a-friend bawled inches from my face.

“Crawford! Did you just – you’ve helped that green-blooded hobgoblin, ain’t you?! You’ve kidnapped me!”

“Doesn’t feel great, does it?”

I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic. Honest.

He snarled.

“There’s no point arguing, Doctor.” Mindful of the tiny electronics somewhere round our feet if the teleporter worked like it should, I tiptoed to the side, held aloft by loose shirt. “Can you stop? I know you’re upset.“

“Do I sound upset to you?”

He let go.

Squelch. Ugh. Over the top and into my socks.

I knelt and patted the earth. Cold and sticky. Not far from holes quickly filling with water lay a couple hard stars.

Bony knees nudged my shoe. He crouched right beside me. Distant touches of sweet-tooth breakfast still wafted on his breath.

And he didn’t say a word.

My back slowly tensed.

Human hearing isn’t wonderful. A wolf can hear the flap of a bat’s wings against winds crashing branch against branch. It knows the difference between a human scream and the distress call of an elk, eerily similar as those can be.

But it wasn’t just Cassie seeing the world through dim human senses.

And to be honest? Teleporting started with a tingle.

My tingling didn’t stop. In fact, it grew stronger. As it did, my neck snapping around to stare blindly at the night, the darkness beneath the trees, warning bells raised the hairs on my nape.

A different smell. Fishy. Strange.

<Cassie?>

I gaped. Unstuck my tongue, remembered how to use it.

“Tobias?”

“Eh?”

Oh. Oh, darn it.

<Cassie.>

It practically breathed over my mind. Familiar and full of awe. To meet again, and here, on an alien world so far from home.

McCoy’s new grip on my shoulder turned into a one-armed hug. “Cindy? You okay?”

Biting my lip to keep from sobbing, I nodded. Couldn’t speak.

<You’re okay,> Tobias said wonderingly. <Cassie. I’m sorry for this.>

Sorry?

Warning bells. Warning!

WHAM.

Split flash of light. Mud thick as a pillow.

Then I didn’t think at all.

\--------

ENCRYPTED TRANSMISSION

TO "UNKNOWN"

TITLED "UNKNOWN"

PLEASE ADVISE. STARFLEET OUT.

Message reads...

DECRYPTED DATA READS:

'EIRIN OF THE DEEP'

END TRANSMISSION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my readers; welcome, and thank you for your time.
> 
> Here's a question from this point in our story, nearly 70,000 words deep into the world of Star Trek and our beloved Animorphs.
> 
> Pacing. Chapter length. Do you find the story lagging, on-beat or in another way needing attention?
> 
> As always, your input is valued and will be used to improve the reading experience.  
> Along with my own developing skill.
> 
> Enjoy, and thank you again.


	27. Chapter 27

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

The raw iron stink filled scrunched-open nostrils with a wet crunch.

My tongue curled up in protest. I chewed once, twice. Swallowed. Took another deep bite.

It squished unpleasantly between my teeth.

<I appreciate it,> Tobias said.

Still unfortunately chewing, I nearly dropped the slimy handful. Butterfingers.

"We learned our lesson with Jake. Just hope we have time to wait."

Wiping fingers on my borrowed leggings, I resisted the urge to rub my eyes. Still fishy, the remnants dropped into filthy dirt.

My stomach rolled in protest. Hungry.

Snake-like neck curled into the tiny air hole allowed to captives, Tobias locked his crimson gaze onto mine. He didn't look away.

I did.

Crunch.

Chin shining with grease, Dr. McCoy wiped dribble from fine hairs around his mouth.

Blue uniform a filthy grey, more so from our early lunch, the doctor retained a signature hunch as if totally relaxed in the depths of an alien prison.

Dr. McCoy kept eating. Licked his fingers clean and looked around for more. He didn't take my leftovers but did send a pointed look my way.

I didn't mind meeting it.

Considering his chosen war stories deigned fit for my ears, maybe McCoy had been through worse.

<How's breakfast?> Tobias asked.

"Tolerable," McCoy answered for us both. "Certainly had worse."

As I'd been hearing on-and-off for over forty-eight hours.

"Please."

"The worms were just the start." McCoy's eyes twinkled. "There's tics. Bloated ones. Nasty galactic constant, particularly when refusin' might cause a diplomatic incident. And bugs crawling under your skin, ooh, I had words -"

"Tobias," I said quickly.

The Hork-Bajir watched McCoy. His red gaze went straight through the doctor's head. <Hmmmm?>

Ignoring the smirk on my companion's face, I asked, "What's going to happen to us?"

Tobias closed his eyes.

I swallowed. Ran my tongue over my teeth, twice. "Tobias?"

He pushed his head against the wall as if feeling for something. <We're keeping you a bit longer, to make sure.>

My stomach dropped. I sank to my haunches, knees to the side. A cool breeze from the small portal barely touched beaded sweat on my upper lip.

Dr. McCoy grumbled.

I almost felt thankful to hear his familiar nonsense.

"If you'd let me use my tricorder," he started, "we might've had a cure made by now, bearskins or real technology be damned."

A curve in serpentine neck matched the sour twist of my lips. We knew. Of course we knew. I propped myself up on a hand. Opened my mouth.

" _Awwwoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooogh_!"

Distant and throaty, a bugled howl dragged Tobias' horned head from our window to let dappled light spot the floor.

Seconds passed. My tongue dried, suspended and waiting.

A shuffle behind the wall. Black dust blew inside between talons curved over the clay windowsill.

<Gotta go. Did I mention how ->

"But you only just -" I began.

"How sorry you were?" McCoy chimed in. "Yeah. You did."

A tingle in my stomach fisted my hands. Dirt ground under me as I glared across the domed room. "You know, I could have left by now," I said. "Fly, or cockroach."

<I know,> said Tobias.

"But I didn't."

<You'd do the same for me.>

"So what happens tomorrow?" We both knew the answer to his unspoken question. "When a slug doesn't crawl out of our heads, are they gonna let us out?"

<We need you.>

I hadn't heard anyone ask for my opinion just yet. "Then we're joining the fight," I said.

McCoy pushed himself up to his feet.

Two grains of dirt rolled down the leeward side of my big toe, flung from the rough climb. I scratched it and watched him manoeuvre right between the Hork-Bajir morph and me.

Neck craned back, the man scowled up at Tobias. "Then what?" the doctor demanded.

Not to be outdone, Tobias shoved his head back inside. Of everyone I knew, the hawk _nothlit_ may be one of few capable of meeting McCoy's blue stare.

"What do you think, Tobias? Jake showed symptoms long before now." My voice dropped. "He couldn't even talk, at the end."

<If they let you out before I get back, don't go outside the village limits.> He didn't look away from McCoy. <Don't upset anyone. Don't morph with no warning, it really freaks them out. And don't promise anyone anything.>

"Get back?" I blinked. "Where are you going?"

<Not far. I'll see you soon.>

The doctor stepped back. More staggered. "I can do an acuity test right now."

<Not helping, Starfleet. They're scared.>

"Scared?"

<You've never faced a Yeerk invasion, mister.> Tobias sounded glacial. <That's a great reason to be frightened out of their minds.>

My warning look didn't keep tension from blooming across Dr. McCoy's shallow wrinkles.

It's hard to read a Hork-Bajir but we'd all learned to read the red-tailed hawk. The dip of his jagged beak could have been shame.

Or exasperation.

"Wait. Tobias!" Legs shaking from nerves, I stood, too. "Why are you still in morph? Aren't you exhausted?"

His head popped out of the window quick as a turtle into its shell. The green claws slipped away. Light flooded McCoy's face.

<Stay safe.>

Scrabbling down outer walls, gone but for the green light filtered through our air-hole, Tobias went. To answer the summons. To fight another war.

Who knew? I shrugged at myself and sat down.

Squish.

Grimaced at nothing. There went another pair of alien pants.

"Regretting it yet?" McCoy had no mercy for me.

"No."

And that was that. Since waking up, cheek caked with mud and trying to focus on split McCoys holding my bruised head, we'd left it there. My hair crumbled out more grit every time I scrubbed it.

There's no story to tell other than regret.

That I'd teleported down in front of a bunch of hyper-paranoid natives. That McCoy hadn't wanted to come and I helped make it happen. That we'd had to sit in close proximity until an eternal three days finally ended.

And Tobias? Who knew about Tobias.

More prickly than ever, practically stuck in Hork-Bajir morph. I hadn't seen one russet-brown feather in the two times he'd come to visit.

In fact, I hadn't seen him fly since we'd first arrived on Eirin.

My skin prickled.

McCoy paced. Those long legs handled the sitting as well as mine.

His boots, a far better option than my bare feet, practically skidded to a stop bare inches from an inch-long me.

"Cassie? What are you doing?!"

The black soles danced around me. I continued to shrink, eyes bulging from my head. My sight split into a million perfect fractals.

Tongue inside very human jaws, it shot out like a spear and curved inwards. Made a tube.

A proboscis.

Folds in great black valleys and mountains stank of leftover sushi as I crawled out of the ruined leather pants.

<Morphing,> I said briefly.

"And if you get caught? I can't just grow wings!" he hissed.

<Keep your head down.>

The fastest morpher on Planet Earth.

That record could stand for an alien planet, too. I tried not to feel too proud.

Wings unfurled, the fly soared my best approximation of 'up'.

Careening. Wild! Out of control!

Six feet clutched dirt and a stray breeze blew me straight into the fresh air of greenery, plants, a hundred sweating, belching beings wafting to and fro like a silver-dished platter of heaven.

I knew what to do.

Clamping down on that shock of losing the windowsill, choking back the thrill of being outside again, finely tuned antennae unfurled to taste. To scent. To do what flies do best.

Wobbling at the speed of slow, I made my way from the prison hut and followed a familiar Hork-Bajir musk.

Blown up!

<Wh->

Cut myself off. No. Corrected my flight path.

I wavered and dove into the wake of a swift-moving blizzard. Mist sprayed up from something moving very, very fast.

And there's no way my little housefly could keep up.

But I didn't need to.

Wings tucked at my sides, diving straight down, my tiny body collided with it. Clung on. I screamed inside of my own head.

Fast! SO FAST!

It took everything to keep from spilling whoops into thought-speech. And I still had no idea where I was going.

But that sweat, alien and putrid and so attractive I wanted to rub my fly face in it, blazed straight through sensitive antennae. And we were going the right direction.

Until we weren't.

Gone. Just fish and more green garbage. I thrust down panic and let go.

The white thing, my ride, kept going. Its wake caught unfurled wings to toss me straight up.

I let it carry me high. Like a thermal.

Hovering to taste the air, my fly found its prey before long.

Looping a few figure-eights to release some tension, I buzzed after Tobias. Hopefully the only Hork-Bajir to be stomping around these parts.

The housefly doesn't see like humans do. See, we have tiny muscles in our eyes to help direct and focus on different objects. To change our perspective. To understand distance.

Flies see in dots of light. In pixels. Like trying to read a book through shattered glass, the only way to understand that Tobias had just swung like a monkey from the trees and landed in a room too dark to see was by letting the fly brain translate it for me.

It's a weird process. I try not to think about it.

Except for those rare times when knowing comes in handy, I like to pretend sometimes that it's someone else at the reigns. That I'm not really a spiky, gross, vomit-eating bug smaller than my pinky nail.

But the housefly took me in there. I cut past three monstrously tall Eirin, marked by that distinctive stench of seafood, coasted the edge of a pointed triangle probably belonging to Tobias and ducked into the darkest possible place.

Flat. Textured by ripples bigger than me. Easy to grip in buggy claws. I scented it.

Wood. A table, then.

Six feet tucked underneath me, my front legs scrubbed themselves. Wiped down my wings. Stroked droplets from my antennae.

And became the literal fly on the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More coming soon. Thank you, and enjoy!


	28. Chapter 28

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

This is Tobias.

Muscle bulged like rockmelons in a terrific swing over another squat homestead.

Squelch.

Landed. Clawed toes spread in mud warm from intermittent bursts of light, a clod stuck on one talon to drop from another spring into the air. I didn't turn to watch it fall.

My hearts hammered exultation.

It's not our fault.

Flubbery faces upturned to watch me go, exactly where I'd be standing if a seven-foot spiky monster used my backyard treehouse to slingshot over clay tiles. Only a few today.

Not the bewildered dozens of my first village trip.

My tail raised behind me, cat-like, horns curled up and away from the ground.

Suspicion blew over quickly with the Eirin. It's not our fault. We didn't bring the Yeerks here. But I had to wonder...

What? The barbed Hork-Bajir beak tore my chuckle like a woodchipper.

Regret is the killer. And pointless regret?

I caught a larger branch, more trunk than bouncing twig, arms wrapped around it. Watched a gaggle of alien kids make waves as they slid down the main village chute, a crackle-skinned elderly Eirin honking as it wiped mud spray from its eyes.

Growing feathers killed the boy Tobias.

The old me couldn't fathom the thing in the trees. Hawk and boy and Hork-Bajir together, vying for control. I've learned. Changed. Left things behind.

Unhelpful things.

An unfamiliar tune thrummed my second heart. I pressed a hand against it. At the bottom right of a powerful torso, the pulse of skin never failed to unnerve me.

I released the branch.

Hawks know what they are. When it counts, survival meant losing those unhelpful tendencies. Worries. Wondering. Dreams.

I couldn't afford to die. The Yeerks outnumber us already.

Slam.

The shock travelled up my thighs, ligaments flexed until my neck barely bobbed.

I dug talons in wet earth, stepped out of the way to not eviscerate a greyish Eirin torpedo and spared seconds to watch its flippers disappear. Over the edge of a brackish pool. Into the deep.

A whine by my ear cavity. I rubbed the sensitive skin.

Jungle planets didn't grow that differently from good old Earth Amazon standard, and I thanked my lucky stars for a tanned hide too tough for nasty-looking alien mosquito bites.

The tips of my horns didn't score fresh wood this time. I ducked further down, eyes wide at utter darkness behind the door stead.

<Here. What's the hurry?> I asked.

Incredibly dim, even by Eirin standards. Someone wanted a dramatic entrance, I guessed.

A single lamp hung over the chest-height dining table. Chest-height for the Eirin meant a nice belly-height for me and I gathered my thorny frame to fit between politely spaced members of our 'secret meeting'.

It's secret. No-one knows we're in here.

Just ignore the actual klaxon bringing everyone inside. It's a dinner bell, promise.

Nods to my left and right, more standing opposite. I spread my three fingers on the table edge, thumb hooked in the soft wood underneath. A thick breath in almost masked slapping feet on gritty stone behind us.

A mind to the squashy bodies at my side, I whipped around. The touch on my shoulder matched the beaky grin spreading across my face.

She burbled.

<Hi, Moorguenn,> I said to her probable 'hello'.

Pursed fish lips let on how pleased she really was.

<It's about time, huh?>

Googly eyes black in the single warm light moved on. I followed her line of sight. Grimaced.

Two shining stars. Gold and completely useless.

A tap. She lingered on my inner wrist.

I ignored it.

The Eirin had technology. I'd seen it. No matter the crude wood, mud and stone houses or the unusual manner of travel I'd almost choked on, they didn't shy away from electronics or shuttlecraft. They almost seemed excited to get their hands on anything new.

Impatience with a hesitant and frankly green guerilla outfit led to human and Eirine cultural cross-contamination. Moorguenn proved her kind a perceptive species.

She knew wrist-tapping meant 'time'. She’d never seen a watch in her life.

Average teenage culture. A Tobias petri-dish.

I shrugged her away.

<Heard from Boss McGee lately?>

"Ppplllbltl uuuuuurh nbllt, bll-"

<Funny.> Maybe I needed to get off my high horse and learn the language. <Translator?>

Moorguenn puffed out air pockets at the base of her neck. The loose skin collapsed with a soft squeal. She shook her head.

She knew what I meant.

I pressed the bridge of my beak between thumb and finger. Closed my eyes. What I said about the Eirin letting suspicion blow over? Yeah. Not when it counted. Not for me.

My hawk didn't need the raw power to win in close combat. I flew best on my own wings, striking from above. Utility. I knew that.

I also knew the potential of an Animorph. I'm wasted on just spying.

Crawling through the undergrowth, watching, listening to snoring Yeerks, it's a waste. It had to be. I wanted more.

I'd watched that particular bright dot fly by every night.

The biggest star, my last friend in the universe, trapped by slugs. Just out of my reach.

Moorguenn crooned sorrow. Her undertones didn't lie.

Cassie got out. Moorguenn let me tag along. And Asuf, wherever he was, didn't need the Eirin lady mother-henning him. He and his speaking device must be safe.

I raised my head. Just in time to hear it.

Boom. The roar of water splattering rocks.

More booms. I counted three.

We turned as one. Chatter fell to respectful silence.

The biggest Eirin I'd ever seen slid in on a firm belly.

Familiar in bulk and expert twists of flippers, he skidded to webbed feet. Welcoming bleats from our fellows met inflated air sacs, a slight hunch buoyed the Eirin up another good inch.

Bossman swaggered to the table head.

Whistles. Gullet vibrating with power, resonant slides across octaves high and low, those four-fingered hands played havoc to the crowd.

My eyes wandered.

At his side, somehow less obtrusive under bright orange sensory organs, an Eirin paler than Moorguenn matched my curious stare. Blue veins forked visibly beneath its skin, thin and translucent in the dark.

It looked me up and down. I craned my neck.

The stranger paid no attention to Bossman. Its attention wandered over my spikes. Passed to each face in the crowd.

In a word, bored.

Sharp cut through air. Bossman's quick jab dragged my attention. Flipper at an angle, he swiped to the right. To the new guy. Bossman purred, bowed at the hip and waved us to the Glory Wall.

We flinched in a lightbulb flare.

Accustomed to a constant headache from sitting in the dark, a low hiss startled even me.

Greenish metal slabs. Distinct curvature, the carapace of a spaceborn insect hung in blood and silence before the War Room. Broken. Edges cut, welded apart to bear up like a pinned butterfly.

A bug fighter. I crooked my beak. Right.

Our most recent victory.

Bossman roared.

Knee blades stuck into soft jungle wood. Finned toes flapped like schools of dead fish as the Eirin around me picked up the excitement.

Then, produced with a perfect magician's flourish, the bulky alien seal-man held out the piece de resistance.

My arms stiffened.

They'd been busy.

I really, really hoped someone had the bright idea to deactivate it. Because that circular device ill-fitting a large four-fingered hand probably had a z-space transponder.

Ax'd confirm it but I knew what it was. An alien radio. A Yeerk Walkie-Talkie.

Moorguenn tapped the table.

She leaned around my torso to add harmonics to the general noise.

It went dead quiet.

She continued. Even I understood her vocalised unease.

The white-orange Eirin honked.

Like a goose.

Moorguenn's sacs rapidly inflated. She trailed off, expelling smelly puffs of fair. A hint of needle teeth drew more eyes to the alien woman staring daggers at our leadership.

New Guy tilted a camel ear to Bossman.

The big Eirin let loose another patriotic roar, as if nothing happened at all.

They went crazy.

Moorguenn slumped.

And before we knew it the pufferfish mouths dipped to the waterproof map with several encouraging hums.

Finally. I clicked metal under razor-sharp claws.

Unrolled and waterproof, the holographic overlay to our map kept my digits rolling light and careful. Puny as the war effort might be, I didn't want to accidentally punch a hole right through it.

Damp air cooled the skin of my forearm. Moorguenn stared down her snout and puffed.

<Sorry. You okay?>

She sneered. " _Scith_."

I closed my beak. Refused to gape like a moron.

Duh. Eirine understood each other. I'd never heard real words from them before, but that didn't mean anything. Of course they had words.

<'Skeeth'... what's that?>

But she nudged me and muttered over an unflattering spitting sound. Stared at the map.

I peered through bright green lines.

Over hills and valleys, trees transparent to give lay of the land, an arrowhead rotated on its axis. It pointed up, tip smooth as a river pebble.

Bossman's confident vocals dropped stones in my stomach.

The space-humans.

Their star-shaped badges. Lights dimmed to allow better contrast for the map, I'd adjusted to the dark enough to catch their yellow glint. To compare how perfectly my strange allies matched the symbol of Starfleet to the Yeerk forward base.

A hush ghosted between all gathered.

I understood. For better or worse, without translating a word, I knew what Bossman wanted. It turned my guts into pretzels.

Spock's infestation. A potential Yeerk Pool. Possibly the most dangerous on-planet target for our little resistance movement. I'd come close to the outskirts. Spied on it. Toyed with half-baked rescue plans.

Never infiltrated it.

It's the one place I needed to go.

<I'm in.>

And the wide-eyed dawning horror on Moorguenn's face couldn't stop me.


	29. Chapter 29

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

_BrrrrEEEEET! BrrrrEEEEET! BrrrrEEEEET!_

"Unauthorized life-form detected."

Spastic laughter cut through searing immediacy.

The Yeerks never quite finished converting tech from Andalite to parasite. The Biofilter kept that inflexible tendency for politeness while aiming deadly laser beams at you.

Maybe Ax'd have something to say about natural superiority trumping underhanded tactics.

No warnings left.

_Zap!_

Grabbing air in the webbed-finger way of this particular morph, a shout turned into whoops as I banked, twice.

Left. Right.

Down in a half-controlled barrel roll.

<AAAHH!>

Hard green buds slapped my short nose. A leaf sliced the edge of an ear.

Blast of echolocation. It told me how close I'd come to breaking bones.

_BrrrrEEEEET_! Flash!

Brilliant!

I closed my eyes. Didn't need them.

Trusting to instinct, I tucked around a solid metal column. Knew the shallow trench behind it by a split second before diving, twisting into it.

Left the Gleet Biofilter behind on its pedestal.

Mind a million miles an hour, hard stone and broken twigs marked deadly route this small body navigated with ease. Like taking candy from a baby. Like asking Rachel to come to a mall sale.

Black and white echoes translated into picture-perfect flight, mad as a bat out of hell.

"Unauthorized..."

The warning faded into rushing wind.

I flicked my feathery ears. If I couldn't hear it, it couldn't get me.

I hoped.

The not-exactly-a-trench travelled to a close.

Passing from close quarters into open air, tucked low to the ground, I noted several more across the plain. Cracks deep enough to trip over.

Not intentional, not dug by hand. Not a trap.

Erosion, I guessed. Lucky for me. Eirin didn't handle terraforming nicely.

Over no-man's land. Spire grasses sprouted here and there but the forest and jungle lay past my entry-point. None in the compound itself. No convenient tree for cover.

Hard edges rose from a detailed picture of an empty field. My eyes stung to open and I blinked, angling to the rising outline of a hut. A house.

Closed off and I sure didn't want to go in there. No roof overhang.

Down. Through a metal x of supporting piers, an open foundation that enveloped a panting bat in darkness.

I skidded to a stop.

Cool air unchanged since nightfall, fangs glistened wetly around my tongue. I breathed hard. Turned on the spot, facing the forest that I couldn't see.

<There's automatic defenses!> I called out. <Don't try coming in after me, you'll be blasted to smithereens!>

Watching didn't make thought-speak travel. A perked ear may have caught a distant hoot.

I was alone.

Just as planned. Mostly as planned.

On pesticide-tainted gravel the bat sensed a line between absolute darkness and just sort-of darkness. I crawled to the edge.

Bat eyes aren't so bad as people believe. In the twilight of dawn or dusk, the bat can see better, further, in more detail than humans. Unfortunately my eyes seeped with a clear fluid and spots danced under a gentle rub from my clawed wing-joint.

The Biofilter strikes again. At least my eyes weren't totally destroyed.

I poked my head out and trusted the smallness of my morph to keep me unnoticed. I squeaked.

No.

Heart a-drum in its thumb-sized ribcage, my shoulder quivered against the inside of a support beam.

Long serrated Dracon emitters sliced through the air. Its horned beak of a nose drifted, pointing at the jungle. A Bug fighter.

One of the Yeerk's smaller and no-less-deadly advantages against lowly ground-bound tooth-and-claw Animorphs.

And it bristled just metres overhead.

Hard blinks showed the spotlight shining from its underbelly. Directly on the gully. My escape route from the Biofilter.

A working Bug fighter. Not the disassembled wreck we'd pillaged and hung up like the trophy of a mighty victory. Defence towers armed with genetically keyed Biofilters.

What else? A Blade ship? Visser Three?

There's no way. A crippled Animorph and some unarmed natives were Dracon-fodder against fully fledged Yeerk defenses. I couldn’t do this. We couldn’t do this.

What was I going to tell Moorguenn?

The ship hung cowled and poised to pounce.

Straggled lines of an unfamiliar ivy-like tendril came under the spacecraft's deadly scrutiny. Cast black and grey, spines of Eirine grass stood in sharp relief under the spotlight.

It focused on a polished reflection. Could have been the tower.

I waited.

Engines at a hum easily picked up by overlarge ears, the pilot hovered his fighter for long minutes. It could have been five. Could have been ten. He didn't want to give up.

A patient Yeerk.

Shivering from nerves and the cold, I waited. Had to outwait him. Couldn't risk flying so close to the ship. Not on my own, without backup, without a better plan.

If that thing turned and saw me, shone a spotlight on a helpless brown bat, I'd be Taxxon-bait.

So I buried the knuckles of my wings in dirt and wished for a watch to count down the seconds.

Eventually the shivering worsened.

Slowly. Gratingly.

Dragging its heels and grinding a nerve I didn't know I still had, the black silhouette drifted ever so slightly to the right. And further.

Until it circled to the edge of earshot and that spotlight blazed detailed maps of bark and a further glinting defence tower. The Bug fighter's smaller lamps dimmed at the distance.

My long, gusty sigh streamed mist beneath the shack.

The muscles in my back needed a little extra pumping. No problem. I took to the air in a leather-winged scramble.

Ground take-offs. They don't suit anyone.

No, we hadn't expected this level of development.

A scant six days, trapped on an alien world. Come to think of it, Yeerks might have the leg up on basic humans when it came to alien survival. A Yeerk wouldn't second-guess itself.

But the bad guys always do seem especially good at ruthless efficiency. Our own home-grown dictators didn't need a long-term working economy to try out conquering the world.

Yeerks didn't need a fleet or constant supply lines to keep up their little Eirine invasion.

The thought depressed me enough to snap jaws at transluscent insect wings. A bug. I missed.

Shook myself and dove down. I'd flapped too high.

Trusting the pitch of night for cover, a sketch of tilled land filled my mind through a series of long-range squeaks.

Crumbled earth and jutting rocks, torn-up holes still hairy with roots and dead foliage. The graves of absent trees smoothed in typical haphazard fashion of a creatively-stunted parasite. Not a bush. Not another ditch. No cover for the few hundred metres of open space surrounding the centre.

And completely, totally not a village anymore. Not the one I'd witnessed, where I'd left Spock to his fate.

Fate. Right.

Maudlin thinking didn't lend well to infiltration.

The sensitive hairs on my wings tingled at a whisper of wind. Not cold as the strange currents above the trees, but soft. Buoying.

Warm air spilled from the broken green mouths of the jungle. It breathed life beneath my wings. Not having to pump for height let me coast just a little, over the hut and patrolling human-Controllers.

They remained oblivious to echolocation. I felt like a stealth bomber, flying noiselessly over enemy lines.

One man looked up. I saw his face, his eyes completely normal and at ease. He didn't see me.

I followed the tracks of what must be a familiar patrol route. Worn beneath shod and webbed feet, it led to the centre. To the Hill.

A rush of information, fine-grained dirt, bleared movement across detailed feedback, a soft spot. The texture came back rounded. A sort of shifting blob on the side of a dirt pile. Something about that caught my attention.

I flew close over the far side.

Focused on that blur and hoping to avoid any curious spotlights, I didn't react in time to stop it. I even saw it with naked eyes before echolocation told me about the second moving object.

Something soft struck my wing.

I didn't crash. One webbed limb outstretched, hard flaps and tail deployed under me to catch air kept my hairy body aloft.

Clicks. Dry and horribly familiar. A wet, dribbling noise. Careening to hover, moving way too slowly, I realized what that second sound reminded me of.

Slavering. Like a hungry dog.

Then hot, burning! Pain!

<AAAAHHH!>

My foot! Bitten through!

Gone!

I flinched beneath a sticky whip across my back. A tongue.

Madly flapping, bleeding, I took a steep incline. Absolutely powered up, up, refusing to stall, agonised.

The wet tongue slipped from my fur. My stump of a leg seared against a sharp bank to the left, my clicks warning me to stay up. Higher.

A hungry centipede slobbered up a long trickle of blood and stared into the sky, hoping for more. The Taxxon. The Yeerks had Taxxons.

Pain wracked my entire body. I dipped, aware of the increasing draw in my wings, desperate to land. For a safe place. I watched the Taxxon follow my splattered trail with a numbness approaching irritation.

No, couldn't land here. Cursing my luck, I kept going.

<Taxxons. Why did it have to be Taxxons?>

But it wasn't alone.

They burst from the ground. One, two, a dozen, they wriggled in stop-start flashes of echolocation.

<They can dig?> I blurted, horrified.

Spaghettified dirt alive with wriggling cannibalistic centipedes. A mounded plate of Italian fine dining with angry noodles spurting out of the sauce.

And all of them wanted me. I took a deep, deep fortifying breath.

<Okay, Tobias. Don't lose it. Don't lose control,> I told myself. Kept blasting up the hillside, watching Taxxons crawl over each other without having to actually look.

Had to land. The edges of my squeaking dimmed as I kept on flying hard, pouring reserves into gaining altitude.

Where could a lonely bat find a roost in a Yeerk compound?

I aimed for the roof.

Fresh bursts of high frequencies brought a sense of how very blind a Tobias-bat could be.

The Taxxons really could dig. Tunnels wormed in the ravenous horde's wake made an anthill of the mounted fortress. I hadn't seen a single one on approach, and why?

Because Taxxons can dig just like they can swim; way too well for disgusting centipedes.

My bat morph took air and gasped sad little noises with each wingbeat. Dracula returning to his home away from home.

Yeerk bases tend towards the practical. This one didn't disappoint. Brick and mortar walls, seamless as a contractor's bottom line. Rachel might have disagreed. She'd call it out for a complete lack of style, of class. Of a certain je ne sais quios.

I'm a simple bird. I like to know what I'm up against. Floor-to-ceiling windows or mood lighting didn't fit that category.

I caught a last strong gust of wind up to the roof and finally, finally dropped to land on my belly.

Dracula's let it go a little. Leaf litter trapped in a very human gutter system crinkled under my small body. Propped at an awkward angle, my stump’s silent screams dulled to a bone ache.

The bat moaned.

I peered over the edge.

Blobs of eye jelly wavered on the lead Taxxon's eyestalks. Not a drop of blood remained on its cylindrical mouth, the proboscis from hell.

Chomping, drooling, that mouth ringed with sawblades straight up. It scrambled on a dozen skinny legs on dirt made loose by constant motion. Up toward me. Slipping away. Climbing back.

But it couldn't eat through solid rock.

The Taxxon slammed into the castle wall. It squealed like a toddler.

I cut myself off from a well-deserved laugh. A shame. According to Ax, not every Taxxon is infested. This could be the perfect time to gloat over my narrow escape.

But enough of them are. I couldn't risk them noticing a thought-speak-capable flying morsel.

I'd have to tell Moorguenn about it later. Or Cassie. I should tell Cassie. Should have thought of her first.

<Okay, Tobias. Not much farther,> I told myself. Stressed it like it mattered. <Find the leaders and get out. That's all you need to do. Just get out.>

A few minutes later, long talons of a red-tailed hawk curved over the masonry.

Balanced on scaly feet, I hunched against a cold breeze, feathers puffed. I steeled my mind to concentrate.

Familiar burning in one shoulder intensified. It made for great morphing motivation.

Small. Think small.

I thought small.

Hard body. Hairy and particularly sensitive to that delightful stench of rotten fruit, the smell of unwashed bodies and an intriguing combination that I simply had to investigate.

It came faster than the bat. Even than demorphing to hawk.

Not trusting the wind to die down, I gripped pinhead-sized fragments of rock and crawled, over and down, until warmth and light flowed through chinks in my buggy armour. Heat soothed the joints of my segmented legs.

Invisible against dark stone walls, a swift run of forelegs over my eyes cleaned the nerves straight out of me.

I'm a fly. I could do this. Just like the bat, there's no way I'd be seen.

I paused.

Took off.

WHAM.

"An insect!"

Angry and thudding, like helicopter blades right in front of my beak. 360 degrees of vision let me spin, tumbling in the wake of a pink blur. A hand. Fingers the size of greyhound buses combed past, wind currents tossing me down, straight down, faster than I could fly!

<Aaaaah!>

"A Bandit! It escaped the Biofilter!"

"Where? Where is it? What form did it take?"

"Filthy human!"

Every extremity cooled to a deep freeze.

Human. They knew. And I knew how they knew.

_Cassie_.

I'd left her with them. With the Eirin. Their village! Was it compromised?

WHAM.

Not close, but I bounced on stone in the thrust of changing air pressure. Thrown like dirty laundry in a tornado.

Panicked, the buzz of wings rattled my dry, hard body to its squishy core. I flew up.

Left. Right. Corkscrewed up towards the light. A fire? What was it, a brazier?

Constant and unflickering, so no. Powered by technology more advanced than burning coals. The Yeerks never followed through with their aesthetic.

"Get out of the way!"

Tseeeeeeeeeew!

Heat on my back. A blast of hot air pulled me up. Into the beam!

"Fool, watch where you're shooting!"

Melted!

I dropped. Blind.

Fly. Had to fly. Tried to. The connecting hinges to my wings pulled on slagged chitin. Four working legs waved helplessly, a foot stuck in molten wing. Three legs, then.

I tucked the remaining three in under my thorax and prepared for landing.

Whistling wind! Tumbling, uncontrolled, a massive fist of floor came up to meet me. Contact.

The fly didn't bounce this time. It landed on its back. And stuck.

It hurt, in a distant way. But worse - worse than losing flight, again, was a pinch of whorled human fingers. Pressed, still blind, I could do nothing but roll between their hands. Dark. Hot.

Trapped.

Anyone unfortunate enough to be in my shoes might have panicked. But I've been squashed before. I'd survive this. I had to hold on.

Rumbling through the finger pads. The Controllers. Wondering whether to kill me or take a half-dead insect to their boss. After all, this planet might be infested by Terran-similar houseflies. Who wanted to risk their neck with a dud bug?

Being delivered to the head honcho I'd been tasked to find? Let's just say that I'd prefer to meet him in a less delicate position. And I wasn’t dead yet.

Just then, just as my human-Controller captive said, "But it was I to capture the Bandit, and I to take the glory," my tiny buggy body split into a million pieces.

Tight pressure, so tight the air couldn't pass through my spiracles. Tighter.

My eyes crushed in silence. Guts burst from a popped abdomen.

And that distant pain became immediate agony.

In that state of squashed, of death, of realizing I wouldn’t make it out of this one, an incredible boom quaked every particle in my body.

<Tobias!>

Fading. Fading away. Goo on a finger. And the sound...

The wordless, terrifying mammalian roar that couldn't come from anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my readers;
> 
> This chapter in particular has been incredibly challenging to write. As we approach 80k words, the planning around each chapter has become a detailed and fascinating complication that has extended the time needed to write it.  
> The extended time may become necessary in the future as well.
> 
> We are approaching the home stretch of The Assignment. Look forward to the thrilling conclusion, though it may yet be several chapters (or more) before we get there!


	30. Chapter 30

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

I was a grey smear. A greenish-grey splotch on someone's finger. Blind. Dying. But not deaf.

And I knew that roar. Thank God a morph doesn't need a functioning brain for directed thought-speak.

<Jake...!>

<Tobias!>

His voice. Jake's voice! Chocolate rain in a dry, angry desert.

I could have died from relief. Only I was already dying.

Bugs are practically unstoppable. Behead a roach and it'll eventually starve to death. A nuclear bomb might make it do a backflip. I've yet to morph an insect with actual intelligence and I'm perfectly happy for them to stay that way.

The ultimate snack could conquer the world if it just had a little more brains.

Death isn't so scary. It's been an ally and constant friend. Necessary. I've caused enough... seen enough.

I wasn't afraid.

Jake said something terse. I had more important things to care about.

Blindness isn't like closing your eyes. It's like opening them after a nightmare, in a familiar bed, without streetlights or digital clock to reaffirm you're back in the land of the living. Off-balance in a place that used to make sense.

The me behind the fly needed recalibrating.

So I twitched a leg. The sole piece of me left, waving at my own remains.

There's something about that. I should be doing something. It’s important.

Workaholic Tobias. Bored Tobias. Keep finding new entrances to the Pool, Tobias... keep an eye on the time, Tobias...

...

<TOBIAS!>

<No,> I told the voice. Murred because it sounded funny. <Not it.>

The voice snapped like a wound cable. My foot clutched in reflex.

<Demorph! Tobias, demorph. You're squashed, man!>

Huh. Well, I guess I could do that. That something pulling at me, somewhere in my gut, it agreed. Good idea. Probably going to hurt, but what's a little more pain, huh? I'm good at pain.

<What's... oh.> I stared into the void. Stunned. <I'll do that.>

Stunned, because what the hell, man? What was I doing?

Focus. The hawk. I'm dying. I'm dying!

It came slower than morphing in the bitter cold. A noiseless slurp and connecting agony that shouldn't have been possible. I actually felt the bulging fly butt suck its insides from the outsides. The fragile sac knit itself together again.

Leftover slime stuck me to a warm fingertip. Like someone blowing out their cheeks, my mass ballooned and drooped from the extra weight.

The hard carapace, smashed into shards, melted straight through brand-new skin. Settled into internal bone.

And peeled me off to splat by the Controller's tattered sneaker.

Vibrations. A slammed foot, right beside me. It missed.

A boom startled through the confused haze. It muffled out. Came back louder. Reformed into separate tracks of noise, the rage and terror mixed into one cacophonous scream.

Sproooot. My leg shot out of my underside, lifting me up for a second into downwards dog. Crack. It broke in half. A joint.

Now the size of a baseball, I made an easy target. And terrified, angry Yeerks love an easy target.

"Filth!"

With a disgusting popping sensation, I had eyes again. Enough to see the shoe. The toe dug into my throat and right under my body. I went flying.

<Aaaahhh!> I cried.

"Hrrrrrrooooooaaarghh!"

Seven hundred pounds of infuriated siberian tiger lunged right under me. Fast as the wind, bleeding tracks sliced one, two, three human-Controllers. One of them, a woman, clutched her forearms and bawled.

Another aimed his handheld ray gun.

I hit wall. Pain rushed through the point of contact. Something deep inside crunched at a rough floor landing.

I didn't have a neck I could crane to see what happened next. But I could shout a warning.

<Look out! He's got a Dracon beam!>

<Aaaaghh!> he yowled.

A beak. My sense of smell waited for an invisible hole puncher to cut out nostrils. My nares formed right in time to catch the stench of burnt hair.

I lunged forward, desperate to see. <Jake!>

<Fine!> He landed on the Dracon beam and pawed it over to me. The length of his tail whipped left and right like a full-blast garden hose. <You okay?>

<Yeah.>

<Get out of sight, Tobias.> He sounded frustrated. <Take that with you. We need to get out of here.>

Jake needed out. So did I, sure. He came first.

Two fully-formed hawk legs raised my undefined blob meat-bod in the most disgusting imitation of a bird ever witnessed by human eyes. Grateful to be missing the freakshow, I kicked the gun to the doorstop. Balanced on one foot, I closed talons round the barrel and dragged it past the threshold.

Snarls followed my jerky go-stop-go round the corner. A hallway. More doors opposite than the way I'd chosen and an open window slit far left.

Steady light didn't reach inside the closest room. It lay open.

I chose it.

Immediate quiet settled uncomfortably round non-existent shoulders.

I finished demorphing. <Aaahhh,> I groaned.

Staying in that body seemed a bad idea for multiple reasons. And Jake needed help.

That didn't explain the rush of relief through my wings - wing - but as I've said before, I'm pretty good at ignoring stuff that doesn't matter. <I'm coming to help, Jake. Hold on!>

<What's taking so long?>

<Morphing.> Decision made, I rapidly took on weight. My breastbone lay on the floor without more resistance than a gentle thump. Weary sighs turned gasps for breath as new lungs grew at alarming speed.

Legs and arms. Tail and curved neck. Spikes creeping through my skin in an excellent impression of Wolverine, I stumbled from the dim room.

Three inch-deep talon trenches in the wood kept misshapen feet from tripping me onto my own knee blade. I ripped my hand from the doorstand and bounded back to the fight.

The intelligent gaze of Jake's tiger warred with a bloody red stained chin. He chuffed. Black gums split to drop his snarl when he saw me. <Ready? I've had enough of this Castlevania garbage and it's been like ten minutes.>

<Felt more like twenty,> I said. <I gotta do something first.>

<Like what?>

<Sorry,> I said briefly, and lunged. <Don't bite me!>

Slash!

"ROAAWRRRRRRRRRR!"

<What the hell?!> Even seven feet over this angry kitty, my bowels clenched hard against an ear-popping yowl. <Tobias?!>

<Just your whiskers - and got your nose. Sorry, man.> Poised to bring down sharp hellfire, I edged between him and five quaking Controllers. I certainly didn't look sorry. <I need in their good graces. I'm just another Controller, right?>

Jake rubbed his pink nose on a paw bigger than my head. <Warn me next time! I could've dodged right into it! Oh, and did I mention, OW?>

The hackles on his nape settled down.

<No! Don't look away! We need to sell this,> I said urgently. Took a wide cowboy step.

Jake didn't skitter away. A flash of stained yellow fangs made my role reversal almost too real. Spine curved almost before he began to pace, the tiger cast a long look over his shoulder. As if waiting. Watching the door.

And us.

<Tobias, tell me what's going on or I'll keep thinking this is a really stupid idea,> he said.

<I need to find the Yeerk boss. The Visser, if they've got one.> I followed his silent padding over stone. Back and forth. <These idiots can lead me to him. I needed their trust.>

<You didn't know I'd be here. Don't try to play it like some master plan,> Jake growled. <There's no reward for getting yourself killed. I thought we'd... I thought you'd learned how important you are. To the fight. To us.>

<I'm not - I didn't come to die,> I said, stung.

He scoffed. He somehow made it a caring sound of disgust. <They saw you leave. They know it's you!>

<Actually, they saw me go out the door, and in came a Hork-Bajir,> I said quietly. Then, <Help! Help me!>

Jake started. The Controllers behind me flinched. I'd poured on the volume, a little panic on the side. A grin pulled the rubbery skin round my beak.

<There's Controllers coming! I need your help, Jake!>

<You said my name,> Jake whispered. Horrified. <That's my real name. What have you done?>

<Nothing that's not already been done. We've been ratted out.> I raised the black weapon in my overlarge fist. Snarled for good measure. <So go and rescue me, then get out of here, okay?>

<Are you crazy?>

A thousand different ways to come to this point flashed over the reflective alien alloys in my hand. None of them guilt-free. All of them my fault.

The tiniest squeak of rubber on concrete. Breath warmed my elbow. "Kill it! Don't let these filthy humans escape!"

<Sorry, Jake. This is how it has to be.>

"Kill Bandit," I uttered. "My kill."

I depressed the trigger. His eyes went huge.

Tsseeeeeeww!

Contorted in an instant, the unfair grace of Jake's battle-morph lifted all four paws off the ground. My deliberately off-target blast smoked a hole in the striped afterimage of his hind leg.

<AAAARGHHHH!> I bellowed, willing fear into the shout.

Cause I really was happy to see him. And Jake didn't deserve tangling up in my mess more than he'd already gone and stepped in it.

A sidestep to the door and a lingering snarl for everyone else's benefit passed that yellow stare as a promise for future violence. Only I saw regret hiding under pinprick pupils. A characteristic droop of his whiskers.

<I'll help as soon as I can,> Jake said. His chin lifted up. <Go get 'em, and come home safe.>

<I will. And Jake?>

He slunk out the door, every bit the defeated Animorph. <Yes?>

<It's awesome to see you.>

<Wish I could say the same, bird-brain.>

I couldn't hide a genuine smile.

Patient. Controlled. The trained shock trooper guarding his precious assets and their more valuable host bodies. I waited three seconds.

Nothing over thought-speak. Jake knew I needed space to keep up the act.

I stomped out. Held a hand behind me and glared both ways.

The little group of scared slugs followed me.

"Is it gone?"

A slap just above my elbow blade. I gave that Yeerk a flat stare.

"You missed it, fool! I could have killed a Bandit but for your interference," it sneered, twisting a rather attractive blonde's face all out of order. Three red droplets dried like freckles on the side of her nose.

Not my allies. Not my friends. A barbed tongue doesn't lend to clear speech without some tricks of the trade. Like a parrot, Hork-Bajir imitate better by using their throats. It felt like singing through gargling water.

I loomed over her. "Injuries?"

She scoffed. Held up a hand, the index finger gone.

"It bit off my finger," the Yeerk said as if commenting on the weather. "The one I'd squashed that vermin on. I was getting a promotion out of that finger."

A slow blink. "...Where?"

Jake bit off her finger. When did that happen? It seemed a little out of character for Mr. Do-It-Right-Or-Not-At-All.

Genuinely curious, a man slightly shorter than my uncle at a full slouch bent over the pink digit. Picked up between thumb and forefinger, his beard almost touched the stump.

Not overtly careful, I snatched it. Disgusting.

But handing the severed finger to the grumpy blonde Controller felt more a nod to the trapped host than its Yeerk. Easy to be blase about amputations when you can just steal another host body.

"Get fixed."

"There's Bandits here," a slender woman whispered into her ponytail. "Where is our communicator?"

We looked at each other. I slapped my thigh, not feigning exasperation.

"Report to Boss. Who will come?"

And that's how I found myself walking straight to the VIP without firing a single bullet. Escorted by Yeerks, hands cuff-free and nothing aimed to spill the beans. My brains.

I may have impersonated a cement truck in my heavy tread. The draw to lean left in one shoulder was entirely my own artistic license.

Acting the powerful patsy isn't my usual role, but I've got to say, Marco has it right. There's every reason to enjoy what we do. Take the fun where you can, cause tomorrow, we might be dead.

Okay. That's enough out of Marco.

Not a word from Jake.

From the slack jawed front-facing expressions, I hadn't rang any alarm bells. And they kept it up. Maybe communing with their hosts. Maybe dreaming of stepping on babies' necks. Could be wondering what stewed beetle they'd be having for breakfast. Excellent protein, after all.

Ugh. No, it's too soon.

Down two corridors running parallel, through a room carpeted by some local furry creature I hadn't met and past a spacious lobby. Gelatinous strands of a web hung from the dark corners of the ceiling, the fat caterpillar-esque thing dangling over its trap. Tiny amber eyes glinted at us beneath the crevice of its helmeted face.

We, meaning everyone aside from me, didn't look up.

Braziers aglow with pinkish crystals marked the way. It seemed an odd colour choice for Yeerks, but I may be generalizing.

Cassie might've been upset at their gratuitous use of native lumber. My claws clicked on floorboards.

I nearly brained one of my lackeys to scratch an itch between my shoulder blades. This was taking too long.

"Where is Visser?" I demanded.

Curious George smiled. His beard parted from mirthless lips. "One of those, are you?"

The other four exchanged similar disgust.

"The Sub-Visser's overseeing the Bore. Last I heard," added a man with a receding hairline. He could have been a lawyer. Or an accountant. He patted his haunch, played with the material of his belt. "Radio silence."

"Radio failure," his bearded friend muttered.

"Poor communication lines." Baldy shrugged. "The next project'll cut down enough cursed trees to make precautions unnecessary."

"Trees?" I said stupidly.

Beardy and Baldy smirked at each other. Their eyes flicked behind me. "You'd think a Hork-Bajir would know," Baldy said.

The tag-a-longs matched smiles. Kinda creepy.

"Explain."

Familiar black boots kicked at Beardo's ankle. Elbows up to protect vulnerable sides, he avoided impalement on me with a flailed step back behind Ms. Four-Fingers.

Blondie cast her suspicions wide. She squinted at me. "Who are you, anyway?"

Sloped as I was, thumping my chest brought my chin down to close proximity with her own. "Temrash 933," I grunted. "Just dropped."

A wave to the world in general seemed expansive enough. Vague. Natural, I hoped.

Dropping in must be a common answer; if all Yeerks mocked the newcomers, did they know how it worked? Could it be reversed?

Where in the galaxy was home?

"Lost. Not Earth," I said.

"No, not Earth," she mimicked. "Remarkable insight, my thorny friend."

"Why trees? What problem?" I prodded.

Rolled eyes. Disturbingly human. Blood trickled between her knuckles from the severed finger. She clutched it in her palm.

"Just the big ones." Mr. Receding Hairline gained a wheedling tone over heavy breathing. "They grow near the crystal grottos. Some kind of symbiosis. The natives practically worship them."

"It's not worship," protested a small voice near the back of our party. She'd been avoiding my dragging tail without complaint. "It's a real, observable side effect of a long-standing cultural -"

"So we cut 'em down," Baldy said loudly. "Frees up the lines, reveals the crystals. A win-win for the Empire."

Beardy muttered something mutinous into his collar.

Blondie turned those spotlight eyes on Baldy. "Takes too long. You're dreaming, Havar 3552, we don't have the resources."

"I heard the first samples contained enough Mercorsite to blunt a diamond edge," piped up a kid maybe a few years older than me. His eyes blazed with enthusiasm.

"And you can't just burn them down," Beard Guy whistled through his moustache.

Someone gave me a sympathetic shoulder pat. I may have looked a bit lost. "You'll catch on, big guy. The Sub-Visser won't waste your host body on fighting vermin. Seeing him first is for the best."

Blondie tsked at this display of a genuine warm, human feeling.

Hand taken back in a jerk, the Controller turned the simple door handle leading to another set of stairs. We went down.

Down. Bricks laid in solid grey withdrew to chipped and chiseled stone. Taxxon toothmarks cut arching rings in a fascimile of the natural timber upstairs. They set skin-crawling shiver just below my leathery skin.

Not missing a puny step took all of my blessed focus. Sliding like a spiked cannonball through my motley crew might be funny but it wasn't on the agenda for today.

The Yeerks edged in front of me.

Further down. It could have been five minutes, or twenty. Concentration did funny things to time.

Until the next landing turned left into the bathing of a warm pink light. With these eyes it could have been a deep red. Like blood.

I squared my shoulders and followed the quietly squabbling Controllers.

I saw it from the landing. Heard it before that.

Quiet. My eardrums felt pressed with it. Footsteps echoed up to us, reverberated and confused. Clicking. Hundreds of spiny feet.

Water lapped at the shore.

The last steps could be ignored. Grimy stone beneath spread feet, I peered across a room better suited to nocturnal eyes. It wasn't exactly huge. At least, not compared to the Yeerk Pool.

Twenty-two feet across, maybe nine up. Not much room to fly. Not tall, not wide, dished around the centre. A gleaming black hole in the floor.

The hole's surface rippled. Water.

My gaggle of Yeerks waited at the foot of the stairs. They looked up at me, across the room at him. A well-built human figure cast his silhouette against studded pink crystals.

The Sub-Visser.

My tread was steady. Measured. I felt a few kicks on my tail as the others kept at my heels.

He turned with a brilliant smile. Fondness touched could-be-hazel eyes and met my stare without qualm.

My chest tightened under invisible claws. I never forgot a face. This deep in the Yeerk operations, it couldn't be a ploy.

"Another Hork-Bajir. Excellent." Without losing eye contact, he straightened his yellow shirt by the hem. "Your name, soldier?"

Fist to my chest, I refused to blink. "Temrash 933."

"Sub-Visser Four-hundred-three."

No you're not.

"...expect my orders to be obeyed, no quibbling about the Council."

This is bad. This is so, so bad.

"Understand?"

That’s an easy question.

"Yes, Sub-Visser."

"I see you're armed."

I tightened claws on the grip.

"Trouble?" The Sub-Visser turned his fixed smile on the tag-a-long Controllers. They stood at attention. "Who authorized his weapon?"

Beard Guy cleared his throat. "Not authorised, Sub-Visser. Temrash defended us from Anda - from human Bandits. He took it from me."

"Then take it back."

Tobias the boy aside, releasing my shiny new Dracon beam took some willpower. Tobias the Hork-Bajir liked holding things. <Not a tree branch, buddy,> I told myself. Talons passed in a snick over metal now clutched to Beardo's chest.

He let the tip rest on the edge of his hip holster.

"Now," Boss Yeerk said, "I have a job for you, Temrash. And you're not going to like it."

What does an undercover bird say to that?

"...Yes?"

"We have a shortage on Hork-Bajir, and only one way to get more." Levelled on my chest, his gaze took on a shade of warm sympathy. My bones rattled. "Report to our second site and begin relations with a receptive host. This body is male, correct?"

No way. No way was he asking me to... I sucked in a breath. He'd poked me in the stomach.

"Sir, about the Bandits," Crazy Blonde said. "They're inside the compound. Two of them."

A kick. It didn't register with my generously slow frontal lobe. The yellow-shirt captain stepped away from my ankle. It almost unbalanced him.

Blondie pressed her advantage. I feared for her health.

"I crushed one of them. An Earth housefly."

The Sub-Visser scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Dead? Hmmm...." The corners of his lips pulled in that natural way of an often smiling face. "I think not. Red alert on-base."

The quiet Yeerk and Baldy shifted under his wagging finger. "Remain here. Guard the Bore. Everyone else," and we snapped to attention, even my ludicrously towering seven-foot self, "to your stations."

Speaking into a radio, he turned his back. Paced around the watery tunnel.

That's my cue.

Boooooom.

Vibrations cast circles across the pool. Crystals flickered, two dying out to red embers. Fine grit escaped wooden slats across the ceiling, my eyes stinging from a caught handful.

BOOOOOOM.

That's not an earthquake. That was...

"Exploshhhhdd!" I exclaimed.

BANG. Crunch.

Slick with water, my foot dipped out. Slipped into the hole. I threw my tail out. Used the weight of it to keep from falling all the way.

Screaming. Beardo pointed the Dracon beam at nothing. Then at the Sub-Visser. His face contorted.

The radio chirped.

But I wasn't listening. In fact I absorbed the snarling, wet whistles from a hole in the ceiling with my signature absolute focus. Taxxons. Controllers, maybe. Hopefully.

"Attack! Kill them! All of them!"

Sub-Visser Four-hundred-three pointed up. Out. Into a screaming night, into the muted thunderclap of honks, bellows and firing Dracon cannons that lit cloud undersides a sick molten yellow.

As one, the Taxxons turned to crawl aboveground. Hungry. Blood in their globule eyes.

"Rebel scum!" spat a faceless Controller.

Honking rebels. I'd raised my arms, blades at the ready, before realizing it. The Resistance. No. I'd told them to wait. I said it was dangerous!

ZzzzzZZAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPP!

Photons the most intense shade of white imaginable seared my retinas. I covered my face. A cool breeze brushed my wrist. Blue dots swam behind my eyelids.

Standing stock still, crucially aware of my own weight and the struggle to swim if I did happen to slip, I drew my arm back. Squeezed my eyes open just a little. Just enough. The flash was gone.

I dashed for the ceiling.

Boss Slug screamed after me. But honestly? I was so, so done with that guy. This Hork-Bajir don't belong to no man.

Climbing to a rhythm of claw, spike and leap seized the day. Solid muscle powered past a struggling Taxxon until I crouched atop a foot-sinking pile of soft earth.

And saw a brand new world.

Disrupted ground, just as the bat described. Streaks of colour across mud, black splotched like paint on a cow's backside. Lit up by spotlights on every defence tower.

Absolute pandemonium. Struggling. Humans and Eirine all meshed together, fighting like animals.

The tip of a Dracon cannon glazed cherry red on an empty swathe of ashes and shrivelled bones. From this distance I couldn't tell who they belonged to.

And at the centre of it all, a wail. It joined with a hundred throats and thumped the air until my skull rang with it. They trumpeted above the aimless fury.

Alien. Eirine.

A presence overhead shook me from that painful reverie. The specialist wings of a great horned owl rushed past, a swift shape against the struggle below. Noiseless. Jake.

<Hey, you're alive! Guessing it worked?>

A dumb nod. Then a shake. <No. No, it wasn't supposed to be this way.>

I'd volunteered for the risk. It should be me.

<Buddy. Tell me,> Jake said calmly. <What on Earth is going on?>


	31. Chapter 31

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

My name is Jake. I think you know by now how far we're out of Kansas.

Reading Tobias comes from trial and error. Years of practice. Staring down pigeons and parrots doesn't come close to his red-tailed hawk. Raptors are next-level blank walls. Arched eye ridges and an intense yellow gaze tends to cut small talk into splinters.

Not that he likes to be ignored, but we'd had to practice. Had to learn. It's simple as that.

Jara Hamee, Tobias' hork-bajir morph, flinched in a most un-Tobias-like way.

I didn't know how to end it. <Are you...>

My words trailed off in the owl's gentle swooping wings. Their warm weight balanced at my sides in another gust of explosive heat. His gnarled skin shone in grim relief from the blasting dracon cannons.

<Jake.> Tobias finally acknowledged me. Thick, ropy tendons flexed in that serpentine neck. His fierce beaked face glared like his hawk always did. <Cassie needs help.>

<That's not - that's...>

Cassie. Cassie!

<What?! She's alive, too?>

He was silent for a moment. And then, blessed relief, it came on the edge of hearing.

A whisper in the back of my mind.

<Jake...!>

I wheeled to the dark edges of the jungle. Over a battle I had no business witnessing so far from home. With the great horned owl's terrific sight I could see the absence of any living thing beyond the crazed alien battle below. Nothing moved or waited in the trees and bowl-like roots of some strange local undergrowth.

<Cassie! Where are you?>

<I'm underground.> Across the space that strained communication to the limit, sheer joy in her voice could have burst my heart into pieces. <It's you! Jake, I need help!>

I settled into the Jake she needed. The most helpful I could be meant dropping feathers for stripes and a couple hundred pounds of ambush predator.

<Tell me.>

<Is Tobias->

<I'm here,> Tobias said. He gave me a look. And in private thought-speak, <she could be infested. Don't trust everything she says.>

Taloned feet stopped running together. Hypersensitive toes twinged under frozen drops of molten Jake. No.

He had to be wrong. He certainly wasn't joking.

Those ideas. My strategies, how important could they be? An Animorph, my - my more-than-friend - not infested. Not Cassie.

<How do you know?> I managed to say.

<She got teleported,> he said. <From an infested ship. Been in observation but if that's Cassie then she left early.>

<And she could still be infested, or never was in the first place.>

But I knew the chances didn't matter. Five percent of a Yeerk wrapped around her brain meant five percent past both feet in the grave. For her, and for all of us.

She knew too much.

<I know it's hard.> He almost choked on it. <There's more important things than, uh.>

<Than saving her life.> I stared at him. <That's what you're trying to say.>

Tobias didn't answer. He might have been gathering his thoughts. Who knew what a forest hermit dog-eat-dog eye-in-the-sky might be thinking.

Behind him, one of the blubbery white-blue bipeds waddled on top of an enormous human-Controller. It collapsed. The tattooed man went down screaming.

<Guys?> Cassie sounded scared. <Hello?>

And wasn't that a sour kick in the teeth to realize I'd passed worrying about the abrupt spacing-out and delayed morphing to save his own life in the face of saving another one of my friends.

I turned to the hole Tobias crawled out of.

Two lone taxxons wound out of the soil. In the pitch of night their pallid flesh showed clear as newborn maggots.

<I'm coming. Tobias?>

The mighty spine curved. Tension made a near right angle of his vaguely triangular head and collarbone. Tobias surveyed the battlefield.

Controllers working together like a strange reflection of science fiction and military pop culture didn't bother me. Believe it or not, humans and aliens mixing did eventually get old.

The fight hadn't abated one inch.

<They're dying,> Tobias said.

<They?> In that moment a dawning dread dredged my growing feet in ice. <The aliens. The white ones?>

<I'll catch up, Jake.>

Arms scissoring the air, the long blades slimmed to a razor's edge. His raptor-like gaze pinned me to the spot. No compromise, his red eyes said.

<No Yeerks for either of us,> I ordered. Almost human. Before the right tongue and vocal chords grew from a missing beak I focused hard on familiar jagged tiger stripes. "Hhhhaaauuunddd noohhn forr Cashhie. You owe me that story, don't get yourself killed."

Because if I was going off to help an infested Cassie then Tobias splitting off to do something stupidly heroic played to my own example. No-one to blame but myself.

<Keep your head up. And that's don't get yourself killed, General.>

With a salute Tobias bounded off, leaving me crouched like a miniature freak of a child, peering through stupid human eyes.

It didn't matter. I hated myself to know that.

Just another red flag in Tobias' rosy boquet. Hated looking away to grow yellow three-inch fangs despite the new power of pounding heart muscle.

Greenish fluid on the dirt must have given those taxxons something else to think about because my finished morph stepped down into shouting, muggy hell without a fight.

The stench hit before the noise.

Metallic. Mild tang on my protruding tongue. Damp air that prickled beneath my hide and drew a scrape of claws on rocks imbedded in the dirt walls. Hole collapsing beneath my bulk, my eyes bulged as I literally fell into what smelled exactly like the Yeerk Pool.

Sounds. Screaming. Loud enough in an enclosed room to flatten my ears, the voices were human and the guttural barks of hork-bajir.

A high-pitched shrill rang to the deep bass of the seal aliens. The attackers, Tobias' friends.

Briefly blinded by darkness shifting to soft peach light, I shouted with my mind. No time to wonder at the change to typical Yeerk preferences for downright medieval decor.

<Here!>

Cassie replied immediately. <Run! He's got a phaser!>

The tiger reacted before I could. Almost not in time.

Jump-started by what felt like a lightning bolt, my entire body leapt into the air.

Flash! _Pzshshshshsht_!

I ran. Rock melted beneath my paws. Red light lasered behind me.

Jaws wide and tail lashing, six hundred pounds of tiger made berth on slow human-Controller flesh. Too slow to defend against claws lashed faster than the eye could see. Her bones cracked beneath me as I kicked up and away for another leap.

Water lapped at the shore of a perfectly circular basin. Stinking Yeerks roiled the surface into a boil.

Their scent flew up my nose as teeth met in a green, muscular arm. The blades of a hork-bajir warrior hissed too close to my head.

Phaser. Cassie said phaser.

Letting go to find her took too much time and I yanked, chunks coming with me so I could spit it out and seize my opponent by the throat. It gurgled on its last breaths and I staggered back to take some of my own.

<He's got a WHAT?> I managed.

Cassie, bless her heart, replied calmly. <A phaser. But he's got something else to worry about!>

Hoots! Bellowing from deep in its nose, a seal alien surged across the floor like a living torpedo!

Humans bowled left and right before the slide ran into a very solid line of blades. The seal alien blubbered and writhed before falling still.

I jerked forward. An aborted strike. The man closest to me wailed in terror.

<CASSIE!>

The hork-bajir waited for its victim to stop twitching. It yanked the blades free. The beak gaped in a terrible grin.

Before flying hard and fast to the right!

Crack!

A shard of its beak bounced across the floor. The hork-bajir collapsed, eyes rolling in its head as it groaned half-baked _galard_.

Another seal-biped stood over the stunned Yeerk shocktrooper. It paused to look me in the eye. Opalescent and bulbous, recognition squeezed its eyelids into happy arcs. <Jake, I can't believe it's you!>

That butterfly wing of a flipper must've been made of something else. She brandished it like a staff.

Her eyes widened into full blue moons. <Quick - back!>

I saw it before she struck.

Lightning fast and very ready to hit back I caught the descending arm at the elbow with tiger fangs. Crunch. The second hork-bajir Controller howled.

Slap! Cassie's flipper shattered the two wrist blades, her bones flopping ludicrously in her drawback.

The tiger's reflexes shifted me back out from under another two angry Yeerks. Yowling and bare-fisted but for lumps of rock, I dodged the desperate attack easily. A heavy snarl shook the humans' advance and I padded around them to growl viciously at Cassie's side.

They didn't follow.

Instead, the humans and an obese taxxon-Controller gathered in front of a central point of unarmed hork-bajir fighters. Not that walking salad shooters need the extra firepower. I rumbled deep in my throat, haunches ready to pounce.

The four remaining hork-bajir stood facing outwards. The four points of a compass. A bizarre urge to laugh passed without my giving an inch.

The last time I'd seen hork-bajir like this...

Cassie nudged me. The free colony and their rather simple-minded approach to subtlety died with a surge of ill-feeling.

Cassie.

<Am I getting answers? What's the plan?> I said tersely.

Soft, wet skin brushed my tail. I flinched away and further into Cassie's shadow.

Aliens. The white waddling ones stood around us and peered down at me. A small grunt of exertion scared the closest one back, my shoulders bunched for lunging at any sign of aggression. The gaggle became a crowd.

Cassie's morph blended in perfectly. Only her stance drew my glance as just off. Too straight-backed. Too awkward on splayed flipper-feet.

Waddling to a strange rhythm, the true seal-aliens stole to our left and right.

Tension prickled up my spine.

<Plan?> Her mouth opened in a nervous froggy grin. <Oh, Jake.>

Without thinking I rubbed a whiskered cheek on her side.

" _Ghafrash_ ," a hork-bajir snarled. Bereft of dracon beams, their talons clenched periodically on air. Their hands balanced over their hips as if wishing for a gun holster. It was a stand-off.

Me and my horde of potential allies. Four mouthbreathing trained shocktroopers and a few human lackeys. One taxxon, ready to eat anything that died first.

All of the hork-bajir's heads turned to stare at me. Unmoving. Arrayed around a small space.

<Protecting something,> I realized.

Between gaps made by hips and chests as they jostled to stand without stabbing each other, I saw it. Fingers. Wrapped around a black rectangular device.

"Andalite," hissed a human-Controller.

My mind raced faster. Two humans. Four hork-bajir. Taxxon.

No. Three humans. That hand belonged to another one, hiding behind the big guys.

Eight of them against Cassie, my tiger morph and a group of deceptively tough aliens. But that hand. It pointed that device unerringly at me. My snarl turned into a low roar and my spittle coated smooth stone.

"No... not Andalite."

Almost jovial despite the crackling tension, the last human-Controller spoke above the muffling closeness of his protectors. His lackeys.

The leader. He had to be the leader.

Suited for lower light levels, my gaze caught nothing but the eight Yeerks. A cornered Visser. A Visser without an army.

Unconcerned, the Yeerk kept his voice light. "Just like its friend, a rebellious human out of its depth."

Silence was my answer. I shared a look with Cassie. I hoped it seemed confused enough.

"A fine Earth form for battle. So distinctive!" The slug turned sly. "Yet... rather loud. Flashy. Not a choice my host would have made, and you are no ignorant Andalite."

Human. It had to be a guess. <He's trying to rattle us,> I said privately. <Don't respond. Don't give him anything.>

She didn't answer.

The tiger panted. Dirt scritched under claws as they flexed in and out. In and out.

<Jake,> Cassie said.

The Yeerk laughed. It was a terribly familiar sound.

"Convincing! Why defend yourself when there's nothing to say? But I do wonder what you had planned for coming down here - without that team, that wonderful back-up squad at your side."

He couldn't know. I puffed my chest out. Channel your inner Aximilli, Jake.

<This form can be louder, Yeerk,> I said calmly. <According to our... tests... proximity to the Earth tiger has proven hazardous to human health.> A chuff. <I do not require physical contact to cause damage. The inner ear is fragile.>

A moment of bright eyes and golden hair. A face between the hulking guards.

Cold familiarity seized my lashing tail. I knew that face.

The Yeerk drawled on. "Quite. I'd be completely taken in I assure you. If not for Ms. Co-Bandit. Cindy, was it? Cindy Crawford?"

Alien barking woke me to my own approach. The massive paw stilled mid-air. When had I started moving forward?

The glee. Cassie stared straight ahead. My stomach turned, eating itself alive.

It may have passed the seal people by, his next whisper. But this morph came with perks and white-spotted ears unhappily focused on dark joy and too familiar, I know that voice, _where have I heard this all before_?

"She told us everything. I know all about you, Berenson."

Cassie lurched. <No. No, how does he->

"So why not return the favour? Take the time to know me - my gifts, my connections. All of it simply pales... in comparison with yours."

<I didn't - Jake, I didn't tell him,> she said, frantic. <I promise! I didn't tell him!>

Quite the performance.

My yellow eyes turned up to look into her empty blues. Pads raw on alien soil, the shift of weight to an opposite shoulder drew her waddling after me. Choked and stammering, thoughts frayed, Cassie said nothing intelligible.

I had to do something. <Quite convincing. Yeerk.>

A hushed breath blew over the poised fighters. Even the taxxon seemed focused on our conversation, its pincers clicking as if in thought.

Every speck of hatred. Every fight and decision. Each regretful consequence flowed between us and suddenly I understood. Because I'd been there.

<I never wanted this for you,> I told her. Told Cassie. My brother was still there. <I wish...>

His own slug had taken my mind and bound it tight to the back of my skull.

Broadcast for all to hear, I let my gaze drift across the scene. It was quite the performance. I'd have loved to know the next part of the script; but the barest slackening of the left-side hork-bajir's arms and knees drew my tiger's attention.

I held my breath and glanced up to the ceiling. Waited. Turned back to Cassie.

Winked.

<I wish it had been me,> I continued.

I understood just fine. She didn't deserve this. I had to act now.

Before those pale things had a chance to mess up our escape and that slimy Visser figured a way out.

<It's a good thing we're not in this alone.> Wise to the rising tension, the smallest white alien gibbered and waved the others to encircle the opposite side of the room. Vein-like nasal tubes flushed orange over its narrowed eyes - fixed, again, on me. <Cassie?>

My throat rumbled.

<NOW!> I roared. Raw might crossed the distance in a lunge faster than the hork-bajir could move.

A whiplash slice caught the middle across its rhino-hide chest. I ducked and rammed the monster back with a hard skull.

Searing pain! Shouts of surprise and rage all around me! I merely snarled past bared teeth and sank them into the startled throat of that left-hand hork-bajir.

Startled whoops and bellows were my only warning.

Expecting cuts and winding like an orange snake around collapsing guards, I met the boss Yeerk eye-to-eye. His face widened around a scream of terror.

Just as another push let me inside the guard and I tasted human-Controller blood, I yelped.

A heavy blow landed right between my shoulder blades.

A heavy-weight myself, the strike barely shifted me. But I landed a useless foot from the Visser and didn't breathe as three blades sank to the hilt in my side.

I bellowed. " _RrRRRAAAAAAAAARGHHHHHHH_!"

Pain! Furious energy! My claws landed in meaty arms still held over my head and I nearly fainted. The world went dark in a stomach-twisting purge of my own gut fluids.

Eerie howls and pounding feet I both heard and felt through stone provoked startled gibberish from above.

Wham. Thump.

Half-turned from an impact on my shoulder, I dug claws in to keep from falling over. Felt sick.

Hoped my stomach hadn't fallen out. I was still awake. So, likely.

Cool flesh touched my nose. An unidentifiable smell and the stench of waterweeds raised hairs on the tiger's nape. Like nothing it had ever smelled. Un-Earthlike.

It shook. Pressed into my face. Apparenty frustrated, the thing whapped my muzzle and I snagged it with my teeth. The thing writhed. I bit down harder.

<Hold on, Jake!>

Squeals like tortured bubblewrap increased to a razor-sharp pitch. With a strength to nearly push my teeth out from around bone the limb flexed and pulled me along.

I resisted all the way.

Cassie - her voice - gave a terrific lunge and bowled me over, paws over tail. My belly flexed. Pained flashed, terrible and white.

If the Yeerks knew, like this Visser did - he knew my name, our secret was out, it was over - if they understood what it meant to fight a team of human kids out to defend everything we'd ever known - we'd be taxxon-bait.

A real tiger would have the sense to die after being eviscerated. No. The so-called Andalite Bandits were human.

And humans don't have the sense to know when they're dead.

I staggered to my paws. A slippery something tangled around my leg. An inhuman yowl ripped from my chest as I took one step and the tangled thing _pulled_.

The sense of tugging from deep inside came at some distance. My tiger dry heaved.

Terrible screeching barely lifted my head. From the ground. Belatedly I huffed from a nose resting in foul-smelling blood. Had to get up. Had to... crawl away. Demorph. Keep the... secret. Another sharp tug left me panting in shock.

Grey billowed like death. Like blindness. Disemboweled and tasting my own blood, a slam down on my shoulder cracked something deep inside. I barely felt it.

Thick talons slid through my fur to score flesh. A hork-bajir foot.

Didn't even feel the cuts. Another short burst of panic did nothing. My paws felt cold. No, they felt nothing.

I couldn't move.

So far. So far away. Nowhere close to me, to Cassie and I. It didn't matter. A part of me knew it didn't matter that I was dying.

Jake the leader, Jake the Animorph. He's made up of parts. Parts that work better at some times - better at others.

The other parts knew my heart was still beating.

I took a breath.

Neck tensed to curl my head from the floor, a rippling snarl came with sprays of bright red blood. It dusted the thorny ankle holding me down.

The tiger hissed. Terrible knowing of what the growing darkness meant for me, for us, chilled me senseless. I had nothing else left. My mind clamped down on that.

I shouted. Help me. Where are you. I need to tell you Cassie.

_< Hel...p.>_

Heat flooded in.

Immediate. Pictures. Broken muscles and an instinct for avoiding large hypodermic needles in the wide black eyes of a deer. Its leg had been shattered. It knew it was going to die.

The face of its killer shone from those empty eyes.

She screamed. <DEMORPH! Jake, it doesn't matter anymore!>

Don't want to. Too many to save. <Can't...>

Weight shoved my musclemass down. Not the localised pressure of a foot. Not the pillar of a Yeerk warrior cutting up a corpse with its feet. My shoulder rolled easily.

Startled, I blinked. Blue eyes barely glimmered through the gloom. Just the corners, the peripherals of Cassie's alien eyeballs.

She lay over me. Belly-down, hollering earth-shattering honks.

Slap. She spared a flipper for my sore nose.

<NOW, JAKE!> She cried. <Please. Please, please.>

Don't cry. My head thumped back down, entirely spent. Too many to save. Right. Like I could save anyone.

There's a thousand things I love about our Cassie. She's one of a kind. The sort any injured animal would be lucky to meet. Her thought-speak, inches from a wordless cry, cooled into very sudden calm.

<Just think. Think about being human. Think about - your toes. Your shoes. Shoes, those new ones your mom bought, remember?>

Toes. Cramped into new Nikes I had to wear every morning or I'd never break them in. School became an exercise in sitting down or switching to gym sneakers to play some ball.

When was the last time I'd played? Tom never had time for me anymore. If I could have frowned, I would have done. I never had the time for me either.

Toes. The tiger couldn't fit into shoes.

<When was that last game?> Cassie proved she had some kind of reverse thought-speak talent, or Marco was right, and girls could read minds. <Remember? Marco didn't kick you in the shin like Rachel said, right?>

No. Marco sliced open my knee.

His ridiculously short haircut came with unfair reflexes and I'd missed taking a real swipe at him. Couldn't afford to lose a knee, I said. That's before he reminded me in a supernaturally lucky noogie that all I had to do was morph Homer and I'd be back in the game without a scratch on me.

Wasn't fair that the unabashed geek of nerd culture could get me, the closest Animorph to a jock, in a headlock.

Bright pain. I gasped.

Feeling flooded up. Tiny flares of pain dulled into wonderment as I swear I felt the channeling of my nervous system coming all the way back. It wove around my spine and down to my toes.

They wriggled in a most un-cat-like way.

Screamed _galard_ rang my head with the noise.

A breath whooshed out between my fangs. Relief in the form of novacaine numbness finally reached into spilled intestines. Which, I realized with a wave of queasy horror, scattered a good three meters in every direction.

Like a preschooler's macaroni art. Blood fingerpainting.

Cassie didn't waver. Her weight felt warm against the shock of waking to my own murder scene.

Before my thought-speak disappeared with the last of my battle-morph I sent a whisper to Cassie. Weariness dulled the forcefulness of my words. <Remorphing. Did he see me?>

<No, Jake.> Relief. <Don't remorph.>

I frowned. <But->

<You almost died.>

I almost die every other day, I wanted to say. Low groans slurped up a twisted esophagus and sounded nothing like English.

Black-orange fur shivered down into bland skin. Human.

I rubbed a hand down my face and tested my feet. My hands. Fingers and toes. The icy cold was gone. In fact - my palm on the floor felt gentle warmth radiating through the stone. Through my skintight morphing suit.

Throat cleared with a cough, I tapped Cassie on the flipper and scooted back, out of sight.

She followed me. I abruptly ran out of room.

<Let me do this. Go small,> she urged. Those expressionless eyes didn't suit her, I realized. This morph didn't suit her. <You can stay on me. I'll blend in.>

"They saw you. They know your name. We're not doing this," I hissed. "Give me some room!"

Despite not moving the hard edges of her thought-speak cut like an Andalite tail blade. <I've been here longer than you. I know what I'm doing.>

"Cass - Cindy."

<You were going to kill him and mess this all up!>

"The Visser? Look, I know he's human, but-"

<Doctor McCoy asked me to keep him safe. That includes not being tiger chow.>

"McCoy?"

Why did that sound so familiar? Tingling in my chest ran down my spine. I straightened, squinting out from under Cassie. She shifted a little.

<A friend. Now morph before->

Manic and completely alone, the Visser whooped. "There you are!"

He aimed the black device at me.

Flash! _Pzshshshshshsht!_

A beam of brilliant green light lanced under Cassie's chest - and straight into mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, loyal readers, patient followers. Thank you for coming back with me.
> 
> It's been some time. If you're curious as to why it's taken so long for another installment, read the list below for an update on what's been going on behind-the-scenes. If the circumstances don't matter to you, fair enough, and I hope this extra-long chapter finds you enjoying our continued adventure together.
> 
> This story will continue until the end. I'm glad to be back.
> 
> ____________  
> 1\. I was commissioned for an artwork just after posting chapter 30. (See: https://www.deviantart.com/brumbyofsteel/art/Commission-One-Tough-Cloaca-862826861) for the finished artwork!  
> 2\. COVID declared my position in fast-food hospitality and management an 'essential service'.  
> 3\. Writing this story in a short space of time let me keep momentum.
> 
> Having to choose between paid work and this story, I didn't feel right to focus on The Assignment and ignore my responsibilities to my commissioner. Working psuedo full-time with no sick days at a very physical job left me exhausted and with just enough energy to focus on a single task; the art commission. At this point I had written so far into the story that I knew how it was going to end.
> 
> I may have mentioned before how I detest updates to a story that don't update the story. It went against what I felt comfortable with to update this story with an explanation and no new chapter. I resolved to wait until it was written to bring this to your attention, and though I worried about its reception, I do hope you all enjoy Chapter 31.
> 
> Now we can focus on and finish this. Thank you for waiting for so long.


	32. Chapter 32

**The Assignment**

_Star Trek – Animorphs_

Flash! _Pzshshshshshsht_ _!_

My eyes slammed shut against a brilliant flash of green. Swift as turning on a lamp, all the lights went out. I don’t remember hitting the ground. 

I was out. Who knows for how long. 

What could have been hours later I stirred to nothing but a mild headache. 

I’m the leader of a guerilla team. Our lives depend on fast and hard strikes against a much larger fighting force, using every trick in the book to keep up the fight. To prevent Earth’s downfall and the enslavement of unknowing innocent people. So we take great pains to avoid dracon beams. 

A blend of Andalite Shredder and Ongachic particle-wave technology, every time one gets fired at us we run the risk of being blasted to smithereens. Literally. Yeerks tend for the lethal end of tech. And yeah, I don’t want to die. 

The few close calls we’ve had felt exactly as Ax explained, if you’re wondering where the Ongachic particle-thingy stuff came from. Like your cells are tearing themselves apart. Like being deconstructed into steam and broiled microplasma. Agonising. Scary. 

Odd. That’s what struck me when I sneezed out the dust covering the floor that I’d breathed in while unconscious. 

Oh, and the most enormous fish lips I’ve ever seen, attached to a vaguely camel-like face. 

My chest jolted. I scrambled back and winced. Panic ran into sharp jutting elbows, all in the wrong places. Like moving a limb wrapped up in plaster. For some reason my arms just couldn’t bend that way. It didn’t stop a startled strike at the lips nearly touching my forehead. 

But I fell short. My shoulders ached. 

That wasn’t a human hand. Just shy of the stooping alien’s nostril slits, a line of white fur where the underside of my forearm should have been meshed with orange hair. It curled against my chest where I dropped it, the wrist flexible enough to fold perfectly perpendicular to my arm. 

Not human. My confusion boiled into dread. 

Claws retracted, I stretched out again and watched a paw large enough to curl almost all the way around my entire head reach carefully across the floor. It obeyed my command. 

How long? Without Ax, the clock could be five minutes or fifty overtime. I had to demorph. In front of a stranger – and I was on my feet, muscles bunched to fight or flee from a mess of bleeding seal-aliens and unconscious or dead hork-bajir. No humans left standing, not the Visser and none of his cronies, either, but the important thing was - 

<Cassie,> I realized. And I wasn’t dead. 

Not bleeding. Nosing my belly found nothing, not even a scar. But I remembered. The cuts, the disgusting sense of my own unspooled bowels. Blood and a foul-smelling brown goop crusted to the floor sent a cold shiver down to the tip of my tail. 

I took a deep breath and steadied myself. Took another. 

So I did demorph. Everything happened like I'd thought. The desperate try at taking out the Visser, taking blades to the gut and losing my head. Like I'd never seen my own insides before. 

No Rachel, no Ax or Marco. It was Tobias, Cassie and me against an infested garrison of Yeerk soldiers. Not enough of us to go to war. 

I couldn't leave. It's just us. There's too much to do to give up, and I knew it. 

It didn't matter that I didn't belong here, that none of us belonged in another war on an alien planet far from home. 

And Cassie was alone, now. She didn't have back-up. I had to find her. 

I shifted on the spot. No soreness. No fatigue. My headache dissipated seconds after waking up. 

Morphing might reset the clock but who knew how long she had to spare? And I wanted to fight. The tiger tasted blood or I'd somehow translated the need between demorphing and remorphing because my approach to the slow-moving 'friendlies' on the opposite end of the cavern raised their voices to an uncomfortable pitch. Afraid, I guessed. 

It wasn't necessary but I sent the thought-speak equivalent of clearing my throat. <Hello.>

The gaggle of aliens mumbled in their strange language, watching me with an equal intensity to the unnerving stare of my morph. A questioning blurble brought my eyes to one in particular. Smaller. Its dark eyes shone in the dim light. It looked familiar. 

<I need to find my friend.> I forced myself to sound calm. Composed. 

Head cocked to the side, the short alien repeated the lilting sound. Orange tubes coming from its nose slits bulged with a series of pops. The throaty clicks were muffled as though spoken by a kid with a cold. I didn't understand a word of it. 

Thankfully the mechanics of thought-speak overcome speech barriers. 

Trying not to be impatient and upset the admittedly powerful living torpedoes, I continued. <She looks like you.> Right now, anyway. I couldn't help adding, <guessing you noticed she didn't belong.>

Not all aliens feel the way we humans do. I knew that from personal, miserable experience. But the sneer on that flexible set of lips had to be condescension. Or a great sense of smell. That brown stuff wasn't blood, after all. 

Shut up, Marco. 

Orange-Face made an offensive honk. 

<Alright, great.> She did a pretty good job getting to this point, though. Despite the havoc Cassie found herself in without the excuse of a brain-sucking slug in her ear, it was always too easy to defend her. <Where did she go?>

The look in its eye turned grim. Gaze cast down, Orange-Face glanced to its brothers and sisters. The alien hesitated - then pointed. Down. 

My stomach dropped for the second time in one night. 

The Yeerk Pool. 

Rancid, at least to my mind, the darkly rich scent flooded an unpleasant tingling over my body. Vulnerable without a body and protective skull, Yeerks in their natural state could be killed by a child. By a baby. 

She went down there? I wanted to shout. Questions rapid-fired from my brain, none of them out loud. 

I didn't notice Orange-Face come to squat beside me. The bulbous egg-shaped belly moved easily into a new shape without any sign of discomfort on his camel face. 

Or her. Nothing about it struck me as male, biology-wise. The atmosphere just had that strong silence of two guys contemplating life. 

No time. I couldn't breathe. The smell. For some reason, I couldn't move. There was nothing I'd like less than to take a dip in Yeerk sludge. 

The little ears on his head perked up. I followed his line of sight. A loud scuffle had me turned before Orange-Face moved. 

Grit fallen from the ceiling scraped under boots striking, kicking against a merciless pair of alien hands. Her face ringed by braids looked almost corpse-like on cheeks the colour of parchment, mouth wide in a wail that started the moment our eyes met. 

She knew. What I was. Possibly who. A Controller. 

But still human, somewhere behind that disgust and a hocked loogie that joined the gore we'd been too weary to acknowledge or avoid underfoot. 

"Filth! Filth!" she bawled. "Andalite - HUMAN scum!" 

<Looks like you->

Wait. 

I cut myself off. She started with the typical rage and fear, the scorn reserved for a Yeerk's most hated enemy. She might just need a little push in the right direction. Maybe... 

Hope is a useful tool. Just for a moment, Cassie could wait. I sent a silent apology in a downward glance. 

Heart pounding in my mouth I accessed the part of the tiger that wanted nothing more than to lounge in the sun. I want to rest, I told the tiger brain. After a successful hunt the killer deserved to sit down. 

As if totally relaxed, my coiled legs edged forcefully down into the stone. At peace. Unthreatened. 

Sinking into natural instinct was easier than pretending I could waste time right now. I stretched out and lounged like a housecat on a hot day. My toothy grin should look properly contemptuous. 

<I suppose you fell for it. Typical Yeerk. Now that we're... we are alone... without witnesses,> I added, rolling my eyes skyward. 

Her chest heaved. Forced to kneel with arms crossed overhead, the human-Controller didn't break eye contact with me. 

<What human,> I scoffed, <could do what we have done? Who else but the elite could halt an invasion of this scale?>

Sell it, Jake. Quickly. 

"Halted? Arrogant-" 

A click of her jaw was loud as falling pennies. The dark scowl twisted with fear. 

I waited. <As the humans would say, vice versa.>

Smooth muscles slid into an easy prowl. The tiger rose in a split second, liquid across the three strides close enough to catch waves of acrid terror on her breath. 

<But I am pleased,> I hissed, <to see results. You follow a fool.>

"I don't - he's not-," the girl spluttered. 

The faintest pink flush on her cheeks and nose could have been shame. Most likely she was dreaming of throttling the 'bandit' strutting about like he owned the place. A quick gasp let her speak in a rush of stammering, useless to me and painful from her pulling against the hold on her arms. 

I dropped the 'pretense'. My snarl vibrated the teeth in her jaw and drew a 'meep' of terror from our captive. 

<Where is he?>

Mouth in a wordless o-shape, she didn't say anything. The whites of her eyes were luminous to the tiger. Irises slatted forest and moss green darted between my teeth and eyes. 

I stared her down. 

<The Visser. Spare yourself and give him to me.>

She frowned. Eyebrows plucked with what could have been errant thoughts pricked my interest. Hesitant, she twisted her neck to look at her captor. At the seal-aliens bloodied and defiant. It drew her lips down into a faux grin from the stretch of neck and tendons. 

But then the Yeerk turned back to me and she was smiling for real. "Fool!" 

A shift at my side. Splayed feet steadied themselves next to me. Orange-Face hummed and the grip on the girl's wrists loosened until her hands dropped to her lap. My ribs thrummed. Unperturbed, even gleeful, the Yeerk ignored the bruises already forming on pale skin and continued to boast. 

"Behind as usual, scum. All of your spying is for naught if you believe he is a Visser." 

I cocked my head. <Sub-Visser.> Big whoop. 

"Not even that!" 

The poor girl's pupils had shrunken to pinpricks. Spittle flecked her lips. "I won't waste my air. Slay the pretender, Andalite! The Empite will not suffer for his incompetence!" 

She told me. I turned on the opposite end of the room. 

Shrouded and hidden by living bodies. A staircase had been cut into the wall, some kind of concrete. Flabby aliens parted before me, picking up the tension crackling beneath my skin. Cassie would be with the sub-Visser. She had to be. 

I paused. 

My glare at Orange-Face was venomous. <Let the filth go.>

Broadcast to everyone for the benefit of the kneeling Controller, my choice was calculated. These 'friendly' aliens watched their prisoner with too-gleeful expressions. Leaving another human being in the hands of her enemies wasn't part of our M.O. 

Controller or not. 

<I will see our bargain through,> I told her in private. Then to Orange-Face, <And I'll know. Let her go.>

I'll know if you don't. 

Because he lied. He lied to me. Cassie didn't dive into the Pool. She'd never leave one of her projects in the lurch. Especially if she needed to protect it from me. 

And if the Yeerk went off to tell her tale? There might be just enough confusion to keep word from spreading about 'human' bandits in place of their natural enemies. I could live with that. 

When the aliens hesitated, I didn't. Even to the tiger the roar was deafening. 

"HrrrOOOAAAAAAAAAAARGGGHHHH!" 

The seal floundered away from the lone human in our strange gathering, flippers in the air. Wide bluish eyes blinked in a startled fashion. 

The Controller didn't waste her chance. Once her sneaker-clad feet, unprepared for a humid, muddy jungle as we Animorphs were, dug their way up and over the rise leading to the battlefield, I didn't waste mine either. 

The tiger's bodily lunges made quick work of at least five landings. Up and up, legs beginning to burn as my short burst of activity petered out and I forced myself to keep going. To keep climbing. Not built for stairs - but built for enclosed hunting, for sprinting and climbing. The tiger was in its element. 

Around the last bend. A landing opened out to scrambling paws and legs. They collided on slippery wooden planks until I steadied myself and paused to sniff. 

<CASSIE!> I shouted. 

Silence ran thick and suspiciously free of hostile Yeerks. Most sources of light were out to the perfect advantage of my superior night vision. Paws pounded after the faint scent of waterweeds trailing along corridors I hadn't visited on owl wings. 

Most importantly, the silence in my own head meant one thing. Well, two. 

She didn’t want to be found. Or she wasn’t anywhere nearby and I didn’t have an answer for that second option unless I counted interrogating every sentient thing within a mile of this stupid castle. 

<Okay, bygones. You don't have to do this,> I panted. My shoulders bounced between railing and stone wall up another flight of stairs. <Stop! Come on!>

Nothing. A set of wooden bars led up to a sealed metal hatch in the ceiling. Her scent ended here. 

That is, the alien morph's scent. 

<Open up!> I shouted, adding a roar to better my volume. 

"Squuuuuirrrrr!" 

Shrill squealing sent me awhirl, ready to kick some Yeerk butt. 

A Seal. A shade darker than the ones I'd seen downstairs. Its bowed neck allowed the creature to stand upright in these narrow quarters. 

Not Cassie. Not hostile. 

Not important. Ignoring the elephant in the room I stretched as far as the tiger could go and the hatch was still too far up. I couldn’t reach it. Not in this form. 

I lunged for the hatch. 

WHAP! 

“Blllrlllp grruup.” 

Solid metal rang uselessly from the blow. I hadn’t made a dent. 

<Unless you’re gonna open this thing, you can shut up,> I growled. My tail lashed violently. <CASSIE!>

“Bggrrrrrrr,” the Seal said. It was almost a growl, as if a chihuahua dosed up on helium. 

Then with one great step it pushed into my spot, shoved me almost effortlessly to the side and hooked the tip of its arm into a release catch in the door. It heaved. The strain bulged out muscles along the skinny flipper. 

Without fanfare the hatch flopped open. I could have kissed the saggy alien but roof access meant maybe, maybe I could get up there.

How did Cassie climb this thing in that body? She hadn’t...?

A dark night swirled above, the stars drowned out by superheated stadium lights and red dracon flashes. 

Like the curve of the planet itself a great sheet of spiny yellow material domed just within sight of the hatchframe. The rounded piece was only just visible by peering at the rightmost bottom corner. I paced back and leapt to my hind legs to better see it. Then I saw the serrated spear. 

Dracon emitters. That was a bug fighter. A Yeerk fighter craft had been landed on the roof. 

And Cassie’s scent led directly to it. 

**Author's Note:**

> (Not a one-shot. Updates may be restricted under circumstances of real-life operations.)
> 
> Enjoy!


End file.
